


An Apple Tree Among the Trees of the Wood

by sesquipedality



Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: AU gender essentialism, Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Angst? I guess??, Are problematic, Cultural Differences, Dub-con a la survival sex, F/F, I didn't really watch Season 3 and I'm ignoring a lot of season 2, Interspersed with Lexa calmly contemplating killing Clarke's friends, Lexa's alpha instinct mostly makes her want to take care of Clarke, Miscommunication, No Mount Weather, Power Differentials, The Ark Stays in Space, also, and I don't want to warn this more explicitly but, chekov's gun goes boom, culture is a technology, deliberate termination of a pregnancy, great at life on earth grounders, kind of, low-tech non-urban grounders, pages and pages of Lexa taking care of Clarke, quasi prehistoric grounders, sex gender and pregnancy are all different from the trope and from reality, the Hundred are comparatively useless, theoretical vs practical knowledge is a theme, this is more porn than plot and more world-building than both
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-18
Updated: 2016-11-07
Packaged: 2018-06-03 00:50:05
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 12
Words: 35,316
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6589975
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sesquipedality/pseuds/sesquipedality
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It had never even occurred to Lexa that the sky-fallen invaders would be anyone but alphas and betas. None of the Twelve Clans would do this, place omegas in hostile territory.</p>
<p>“We cannot destroy them.”</p>
<p>Anya nods in agreement, and Lexa sends her back to retake command from Tristan. But the omega girl Anya had kidnapped to prove her point-- Clarke-- Lexa keeps for herself.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

“You understand now, why I couldn’t just kill them. You understand why I had to bring her to you.” Anya has gone to her knees in greeting ever since Lexa's ascension, but this is the first time that Lexa has heard Anya plead. A few weeks ago, Lexa wouldn't have thought it possible.

Truly, Anya has deviated from expectations ever since her War Band rode out to the western woods, chasing down the local villages' report of outsiders. Confirmation of that rumor came back almost immediately, but Anya tarried so long over dispatching the invaders that Lexa finally sent _Tristan_ to take command. And that means that this sight, Anya on her knees in front of Lexa, having abandoned her posting, with a captive cowering behind her -- with a captive who is _still alive_ \-- it's not just atypical. It's disobedience to Tristan's direct orders. Tristan's messenger, humbly asking that Heda take Anya's head for this effrontery, is currently cooling his heels outside the tent. 

 

Lexa nods absently in response to Anya's request for reassurance. Her entire attention is focused on Anya's captive. Anya's _omega_ captive, unless Lexa's senses have gone mad. 

It's abundantly clear, now, why Anya refused to execute the invaders. The greater marvel is that Tristan does _not_.

 

The girl is the next thing to an impossibility. Her age marks her as three or four summers past first heat but, by her scent, there's neither a babe in her belly nor milk in her beautiful breasts. Oh, disaster would make an explanation -- an infant’s death, a miscarriage, famine, disease-- tragedies can interrupt the natural cycle that ensures their next generation, that means most omegas are still weaning their most recent babes even as new life sprouts in their bellies. But by everything Lexa's nose is telling her, this girl, this fully grown omega, has never been pregnant at all, much less a mother. And, further impossibility, she has either never shared heat with an alpha or that joining took place so long ago that all signs of the claim have faded.

Which is not to say that the girl is unscented. Underneath the casual, proximity-produced Anya-smell Lexa can detect subtle attempts at claiming. Three are most prominent: two alphas, a woman and a man, and a beta man partnered to the alpha woman. Lexa's lip curls at the most likely scenario: alphas competing for closeness to the omega, each trying to establish a full claim, the omega typically oblivious to it all, and the beta jostling to support his partner’s suit. Even with the beta's support, though, the markings of the two alphas cancel each other out. Neither is dominant enough to establish an advantage in the omega’s oncoming heat. 

Yes. Lexa can smell that, too. Barely -- the omega is just beginning to blossom. She seems to be just barely recovered from a sustained period of deprivation, and its obvious that, at the slightest hint of new hardship, her body will conserve resources by postponing her nascent heat indefinitely.

But if someone were to care for the girl... if someone were to keep her warm and secure, ply her with platters of good food, with grain and greens and meat, smothered in rich sauces… once the omega's body is confident in sustained abundance, her heat will come on certain and fast.

And, to judge by how enthralling she find the girl now, still days or weeks from full flower, it will be a more powerfully affecting heat than any Lexa has previously encountered. Scenting deeply, Lexa has to concede that she cannot blame those two hapless alphas for making fools of themselves in an attempt to secure the omega's attentions.

She could do a much better job of it herself, though. If she cared to try. 

 

Lexa has never shared an omega’s heat. 

Costia talked about it sometimes. In bed. Her hand working between Lexa's legs, she'd whisper that she was "gonna get you a nice ‘mega girl, Lexa-my-love, fill her up with your seed, grow you a baby--”

Lexa is fairly sure Costia thought about it outside of bed, too, but the shape of those dreams is lost forever. Had Costia imagined the two of them winning a newly blossomed omega, maybe? A girl that they could cosset and make a pet of, a pleasant life spent caring for the girl and the resulting children, like the happy ending in a folktale? _And so they lived for many years, the Grizzled Alpha, her Wise Beta, and their Sweet, Young, Foolish Omega._ Never mind that, in reality, Costia had died just after Lexa became Heda, and prior to her ascension it would have taken at least a double-handful of hard-scrabble years before they could have acquired enough prosperity to set up that sort of a household.

So maybe Costia had pictured them making a deal with an older 'mega, a woman with more than enough children underfoot already. A widow, or someone who partnered solely with a beta or even another ‘mega, someone who took alphas for the length of one heat only. A woman who would give them the child that resulted to raise on their own.

 

If Lexa had made a child for Costia before she became Heda, Costia would have had to stay closer to home. She wouldn’t have gone scouting in Azgeda territory, wouldn’t have been caught. Would still be alive.

 

Lexa refocuses herself on the present conundrum: Anya's disobedience, and its entirely defensible cause.

“Are all the invaders like this?”

Despite Lexa's lack of clarification, Anya seems to intuit that she is asking about the girl's remarkable desirability, and her head shakes in negation. “This one is their healer, Heda, and also one of their leaders. She is canny, clever, determined, and kind. She has taken on something of the role of foster mother to their youngest ones-- she is the oldest ‘mega there. I brought you the best of them, Heda, I swear to it. But she is not unique in that none of their omegas seem to have ever bred. And, Lexa, omegas make up almost half their camp-- the invaders are more omegas than alphas, if you can believe such a thing-- and they are poor in betas, too.”

 

It had never even occurred to Lexa that the invaders would include omegas in their numbers. None of the Twelve Clans would ever do this, send omegas en masse into unsecured territory--much less unpartnered omegas. _More omegas than alphas!_

“We cannot destroy them.”

“No, Heda.” Anya’s eyes are narrowed in satisfaction. She bet hugely, and the risk is paying off. “We will have to act quickly to prevent Tristan from doing so, though.”

 

Lexa calls Tristan’s messenger into the tent. She sends him galloping westward at Anya’s side, confirmation on the sudden reversal of fortunes. Anya will retake command of her own forces, and of Tristan's too. The invaders are to be watched, subdued as the opportunity presents itself, but by no means killed.

“And this omega, Heda?”

This omega, Lexa keeps.

 

***

 

Nothing makes sense.

That's not new. Nothing has made sense to Clarke for a very long time. Wells's seeming betrayal, her father's execution, her own imprisonment-- the realization that she and all the other prisoners have been turned into an experiment, canaries in an almost certainly deadly coal mine--

The ground didn't make sense either, but in a different way. An amazing and magical way, at least at first. Non-toxic air. Non-toxic air! Life, life on the ground!

And the way that at first, the surface stretches out in every direction as if Clarke were always standing at the top of her own personal hill, her mind so accustomed to the circular curve of the Ark’s rings that it took days to stop misinterpreting true flatness. And the way the light changed, constantly, between one moment and the next: cloud cover and leaf flicker, yes, but also with a general pattern of red-tinted at sunrise and sunset, yellow in the late afternoon, and white-blue at midday.

But then there’s her companions' determination to remove their monitoring bracelets and condemn everyone left on the Ark to suffocating death. There's the shocking realization that people have survived on earth this whole time, and that these impossible Grounders have attacked Jasper. The uncanny feeling in the days that follow, of eyes in the woods, unfriendly and always watching-- the Grounders’ existence goes against everything Clarke has ever been taught about the workings of the world, but it does fit what Clarke has come to expect from life: nothing will ever stay good, ever stay safe, for long. Danger, fear and unfairness are the true constants.

Oh, Raven comes down, a miracle from heaven, beautiful and confident and competent, but of course Bellamy steals her radio. Yes, he regrets his actions later, but the radio is already destroyed beyond repair. There's no way to let the Ark know the earth is safe and bodies from the culling make a shower of shooting stars. Oh, Wells is still the person Clarke once knew him as-- even if that means her mother is not-- _Wells_ never betrayed her-- and the littlest girl in their group, so young she hasn’t developed a sex yet, stabs him dead in punishment for his father's crimes. 

Except now, after being captured by one of the never-seen Grounders, dragged through the woods for two days with a rope around her neck, shoved to her knees in front of the most impressive woman Clarke has ever encountered (another alpha woman, and they didn't have many of those on the Ark, Raven is the only one Clarke knows of in her own generation, but here on the ground Clarke has already met two--) now, Clarke is being gently herded into a bath.

A _bath_. A basin big enough to hold a person sitting down with the their legs stretched out, filled halfway to the brim with water. Hot water, even: steam is curling up from the surface. It's much too good to be true.

When the rush of beta men with buckets ceases, it's just Clarke and the alpha woman in the tent. Clarke shifts on her feet. Her legs are tired from standing to the side, out of the way, for at least the last hour while the alpha woman made pronouncements in their incomprehensible language, the other alpha woman, the one who kidnapped Clarke, bowed low and then exited with a confident stride, and then the beta men --servants?-- filled up the tub.

 

Abruptly, the alpha woman gets up from her chair- her throne?-- and prowls towards Clarke. Her eyes are lovely, a rim of forest green almost swallowed by the expanding darkness of her pupil. Her nose flares as if she is drawing in Clarke's scent, and Clarke can't help but mimic the action. The alpha smells incredibly good. Clarke shivers.

Strong fingers wrap around Clarke's forearm. Clarke can feel their hot press even through her shirt.

“Are you cold?” the alpha asks. The words are perfect English. Her voice is calm, and as warm as her hand. Her thumb is rubbing a circle into the tender skin at the crook of Clarke's elbow. Clarke is frozen still as the alpha moves further into Clarke's space until they are standing side by side, and then the alpha's other arm slides back and wraps around Clarke’s waist, solid and immovable as titanium. 

The alpha takes one step and then another, pulling Clarke with her towards the bath.

“Your clothes are too thin for this weather.” The alpha's intonation is flat, statement not question. “The water is hot, though, and after you are clean and warmed through, I will find you something better.”

“You want me to take a bath?” Clarke feels stupid even as the words leave her mouth. She feels stunned, unable to think. The alpha smells so, so good. 

“Yes,” nods the alpha. She is smiling in approval at Clarke's demonstration of basic auditory comprehension. Her teeth are very white, and mostly straight. Clarke's eyes stay locked on the woman's plush mouth even after the smile fades. The alpha's tongue licks out, leaving a trace of shiny wetness on her lips.

They stop moving: they are standing next to the tub. Clarke forces herself to look down, examining the construction of the basin and its frame. There are hinges, as if it can be folded into a smaller shape for easier transport.

Eventually, the hand holding her elbow shifts to pluck at the fabric of her sleeve. “The water will not stay hot forever,” the alpha woman says.

 _Why are you doing this, why are you being so nice to me,_ Clarke wants to ask. She doesn't.

The hand on Clarke's hip moves, gripping the edge of Clarke's too thin shirt. Fingers brush along bared skin, the curve of Clarke's waist, tugging the shirt up. Clarke shivers again at that glancing touch, and she crosses her arms to grasp the hem of the shirt herself, yanking it roughly over her head.

The alpha lifts the bunched-up fabric out of Clarke's hand when Clarke's arm drops limply. She reaches back, putting the shirt on a chair. Her hand returns to its place on Clarke's hip, and her other hand mirrors the position on Clarke’s other side, and then both hands are moving along Clarke's waistband, brushing against her stomach, and the alpha is rapidly undoing the buttons on Clarke's pants. Clarke lets her. When the woman drops down gracefully, tugging each leg loose, Clarke lifts her feet to step free.

Now she _is_ cold, wearing nothing but bra and briefs.

The alpha woman is still kneeling at Clarke's feet. Clarke stares at the top of the her head. The intricate braids are only somewhat succeed at taming her wild, fluffy curls.

Very slowly, the woman leans in until the softness of her cheek is nuzzling Clarke's thigh. Clarke can feel breath on her skin, warm and humid.

Clarke's hand stretches down. She watches it lightly touch the top of the woman's head. Her hair is even softer than it looks.

The alpha lets out a long exhalation at the contact, almost a sigh. Her face nestles more firmly against Clarke's leg. She turns slightly, and then her half-open lips are touching Clarke's skin. Not a kiss, just a press of wet warmth. Clarke wonders if the alpha will continue further, if she will nip, suck, lick. The idea is not unappealing. If she were to do any of those things, some part of Clarke is certain they could only feel good. 

The alpha pulls her head back. Clarke shifts so that she is touching the woman's shoulder instead

“What is your name?” Clarke hears her own voice ask. It is, embarrassingly, almost breathy, and certainly more husky than usual.

The alpha rises to her feet in one smooth motion. She clasps Clarke's hands together between her own, smiles brilliantly. “You may call me Lexa.”

“I'm Clarke.” The words are even raspier than before. Clarke licks her lips, swallows against a suddenly dry throat. The woman's eyes track the movement before lifting back up. 

“I know.”

 _How?_ Clarke doesn't ask. Eyes in the woods. Ears too, clearly.

The alpha woman-- Lexa--figures out how to undo the clasp on Clarke's bra. She tugs Clarke's briefs off, waits for Clarke to step free. When Clarke is completely naked, legs pressed together, arms crossed over her breasts, Lexa's hands resume their original position: one on Clarke's elbow, the other wrapped around her back.

Under the steady, guiding grip, Clarke clambers awkwardly up and into the bath. Despite Lexa's warning the water has not gotten cold, in fact it is deliciously hot. Clarke curls her toes happily. Lexa's hands move up to Clarke shoulders and she presses down until Clarke is seated in the water, leaning against the edge of the tub.

Lexa sits down herself, on a low stool that Clarke had not previously noticed.

“Would you like me to wash your hair?"

Lexa uses a pitcher to scoop up water. She cups her other hand against Clarke's forehead and temples, so that nothing drips down into Clarke's eyes. She has a jar of something slippery and sweet smelling that she rubs firmly into Clarke's scalp. When she works the resulting lather all the way down to the ends of Clarke’s hair she is so careful and gentle that she never tugs against a single knot.

After Lexa has rinsed out the last of the suds, she pins the dripping strands on top of Clarke’s head and tells Clarke to lean forward so that she can scrub her back. Tenderly, she washes behind Clarke’s ears, the back of her neck, and then smooths the soapy scrap of cloth down the front, a swipe on each side of Clarke's windpipe. She washes Clarke's shoulders, the length of her arms and between each finger. The cloth passes beneath Clarke's armpits, drifts over her sternum, lingers on the top of her breasts.

“Under the water?” Lexa says. She hands the cloth to Clarke and Clarke lifts herself a little bit out of the tub. Unlike Lexa, she wipes down the rest of her body quickly and efficiently, not lingering over the drag of the cloth against the tight points of her nipples or the pleasant press of it between her legs.

When she is all clean, smelling of nothing but water and soap (since she hardly notices her own base scent, and its a lonely sensation, this absence of the signs of others-- like the sky box) Lexa guides her up and out of the tub. 

Clarke barely has a chance to shiver before Lexa swaddles her in thick lengths of cloth, squeezing the moisture out of her hair.

Lexa slides back a hanging curtain and nudges Clarke to perch on the edge of the sumptuous bed it concealed. Her hands press down on Clarke's shoulders. _Stay here_ , Clarke thinks, and she does, while Lexa walks to the entrance to the tent and says something in her own language to someone outside.

Lexa stays standing at the front of the tent, feet braced, shoulders back, while the beta men walk past her again with their buckets, efficiently emptying the tub. When the level of water has gone down enough that there's no risk of spillage, they pick it up smoothly and carry it out. One of them comes back a moment later, balancing a heaping platter of food. He seems to be gearing towards the alcove bed, towards Clarke, but Lexa reaches out and takes the platter from him. She says something terse, and he bows and leaves.

After the tent has closed behind him, Lexa's shoulders go down and her spine relaxes. Clarke's mouth waters at the smell of the food as Lexa comes closer, until Lexa is urging her to move back, to sit crosslegged near the head of the bed, and placing the platter in her lap.

“Eat,” Lexa orders. She is sprawled on the bed in front of Clarke, half lying down, chin resting in her upraised hand. Clarke stares at the food. It's very different from the bland, limited fare on the Ark. They've eaten meat, at the Dropship, but this smells much more enticing than half raw, half charred chunks of giant cat.

“I would never try to poison you, Clarke.” Clarke doesn't know Lexa well enough to be certain, but she's fairly sure that the alpha is teasing. When Clarke stays frozen, though, Lexa gets up and scoots until she's leaning against Clarke's side. She reaches down, taking small tastes from each thing on the platter until she's had a bite of everything, proving that it’s all safe.

Clarke watches as Lexa's fingers pinch off some of the glutinous mush, rolling it into a little ball. Lexa dips it into the sauce that is pooling around the slices of meat, and then the entire mess is pressing against Clarke’s lips. Clarke opens her mouth and lets Lexa feed it to her. It is definitely the most delicious thing Clarke has ever tasted.

Clarke lets Lexa feed her three of the mush balls and a dripping slice of the meat itself-- which, impossibly, might be even better than the mush-and-sauce-- before she takes the task over for herself. She isn’t as good at it as Lexa. Sauce gets all over, and when she’s too full for another bite she lifts her eating-hand to her mouth and carefully laps it clean. The sauce, she’s fairly sure, is the best part of the entire, incredible meal. Lexa’s eyes are dark as she watches Clarke suck on her own fingers.

Once Lexa is convinced that Clarke will not eat another morsel, she gets up to hand the platter to someone outside the tent. Coming back to the bed, her movements are certain and fast: pull back the blankets on the side opposite Clarke. Come around to Clarke’s side and pull off the drying cloths Clarke is still wrapped in, dropping them in a damp pile on the floor. 

Clarke stares up at Lexa in surprise at being so suddenly naked. Lexa slides onto the edge of the bed next to Clarke, pushing her over until she’s on top of the turned down part of the bed. Reaching out, she pulls the blankets up until Clarke can cover herself with them. Clarke clutches the fabric up to her chin. 

“I am sure that you are tired,” Lexa murmurs. “Sleep. I’ll stay here beside you the whole time.”

Hesitantly, Clarke lays down and Lexa slides under the covers next to her. They are just barely touching, and Lexa is still fully clothed. 

The bed is very soft. And it’s warm. Almost too warm. Clarke shifts until she can push he topmost blanket off entirely. When she looks over as she lies back down, Lexa is curled onto her side, eyes open and fixed on Clarke. Seeing that Clarke is looking back at her, Lexa smiles and reaches out to tuck a strand of hair behind Clarke’s ear, then moves closer, until they are firmly pressed together.

The whole bed smells like Lexa. It’s Lexa’s bed, in Lexa’s tent, in Lexa’s camp. A Grounder camp. Back at the Dropship, Clarke thought of the Grounders as an enemy, but Lexa has been nothing but caring and kindness since her arrival. Lexa's scent is new to Clarke, only a few hours familiar, but it is already acquiring connotations of comfort and safety. Clarke nuzzles into the Lexa-smelling pillow and falls asleep. 

 

***

 

Lexa is not a child. She does not _nap_. But when she jerks awake, she can tell by the light that it has been several hours since she first lay down next to the omega captive-- next to Clarke.

They have shifted in sleep, so that Clarke lays on her side facing away from Lexa and Lexa is tucked up right behind her. Their legs are intertwined, and Clarke is holding the hand of the arm that Lexa has wiggled under her, pressing it between her bare breasts.

Lexa sniffs several times, drawing in the omega's scent. It’s changed slightly. Just a few hours since their meal, but the girl is already closer to heat, her body noticing the sudden abundance of nutrients and directing some to cushion her womb.

Lexa shifts, pulling a little bit away from Clarke, and realizes that she is changing, too. Her sacks have dropped, leaving her warmth to begin producing seed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My understanding of A/B/O is that it started eons ago in Supernatural RPF werewolf fic and was nearly boy-slash exclusive for a number of years, so seeing it suddenly flourish as a femslash thing in the 100 was... a little unexpected. And delightful. And *weird*.
> 
> And because I have no interest in cis-m!preg, and minimal interest in cis-g!p, and also because when I'm having characters act on their imaginary *animal instincts* I like to be able to at least semi-headcanon a reason, way back in evolutionary history, for those instincts to exist (and because I have read *way too many* (bad) evo psych theories, and because I have a mania for holistic approaches and internally consistent systems) -- the rules of this a/b/o universe are somewhat different from what seems most common. An attempt has been made to spell all of this out in-text, but additional background can be found in the comments section or by asking on my tumblr.
> 
> This is also, to a certain degree, an attempt to write a feminist A/B/O fic/verse. Nota bene, "feminist" in this instance means "engages with feminist concerns and approaches," not "feminist utopia."
> 
> Again, **this is NOT A FEMINIST UTOPIA. TURN BACK NOW if that's what you're looking for because you will probably hate this Lexa and me for writing her. And that's not very fun for either of us, chickadee.**
> 
> The story also has a lot of classic romance tropes that.... are a bit incongruous with, and sometimes may completely invalidate, the feminism. *shrug*
> 
>  
> 
> In conclusion: it's just fic, folks. It's messy, it's un-beta-d, it's free-to-you and written for fun on my end. There's a lot more stories out there to explore if this one is not your cup of tea.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> To avoid cognitive dissonance, I should probably make it clear that A/B/O dynamics are not the only canon divergence in this fic. More notes at the end.

On the fourth day, Clarke starts asking questions. About everything. 

  
She tilts her head, looks at Lexa from under the long sweep of her eyelashes, and appreciatively strokes the thick wool of Lexa's favorite cloak, which Lexa wraps around her whenever they leave the tent. The she queries the means of its production. 

None of Lexa's shirts or trousers fit Clarke. So, for the layers closest to skin, the omega is dressed out of the general stores. These clothes still smell, faintly, of the quartermaster and his assistant. It unsettles Lexa, and for reassurance she reaches out to touch Clarke, more frequently than she intends.

The cloak is winter thick, too warm for the afternoon sunlight. Clarke has pushed it back over her shoulders. Beads of sweat drip down Clarke’s temples and a red flush is spreading at the base of her throat, but she doesn't remove it completely. Lexa's own scent permeates the fabric from frequent use. When Clarke wears it, the quartermaster’s reek is not detectable at all.

Lexa racks her memory for every fact she has ever learned about the sheep herding on the grassy hills to the north, from whence comes wool. And tanned sheepskins, sharp fatty cheese, tough mutton and tender lamb. Once they have plumbed the depths of Lexa's meager knowledge on the care and keeping of sheep, Clarke moves on to carding, spinning, and weaving.

  
Lexa had a drop spindle when she was very young, as much toy as tool in her clumsy fingers, and the steady thump of mama's batten beating the weft on the great loom was the heartbeat of her childhood-- although her mothers worked linen, hemp, or cotton more often than wool.

Lexa was to have had a tablet loom of her own, once upon a time, just as soon as she turned six. She'd spent many covetous hours spying on the twins as they flipped tablets rapidly, sure of their patterns, and passed their shuttles back and forth, and whispered secrets.

But then one day her milk-mother sniffed very deeply when she was giving Lexa a bath, and called for mama and Lexa's oldest sister. 

They scented her too, then examined her closely, between her legs. She would never grow up to be a beta woman or an omega, they told her. She was a little alpha girl and would become an alpha woman. Coaxingly, they convinced her to give up her spindle in exchange for a slingshot, which her oldest brother soon taught her to use. When she turned six, her sire presented her with a wooden sword. She never learned more of weaving.

  
Lexa has been neglecting her duties, waving away subordinates with minor questions since Clarke's arrival, but now she gestures at the huntmaster to stop hovering and approach. Lexa is grateful for the alpha woman's timely interruption: it prevents Clarke from realizing the extent of Lexa's ignorance in yet another area.

The huntmaster greets them in trigedslang but Lexa responds with gonnaspeak. She wants Clarke to be able to understand their words, to hear that it is to Lexa that the huntmaster comes with her concerns over the dwindling supply of meat in the camp and the nearby villages. It is to Lexa that she reports the animal signs seen recently. Lexa's is the opinion consulted on the value of one warrior's nearly perfect aim against another's tracking ability, in the ten-band that Lexa has approved the huntmaster assembling.

After the huntmaster leaves to begin translating plan into action, Clarke switches from textiles to questions about traps and tracking and prey behavior. Lexa answers with a breezy confidence, delving into further detail without Clarke needing to ask. She hides her relief over the shift to a topic where she will not be disgraced by ignorance. 

Hunting leads, naturally enough, to curiosity about the surrounding terrain. 

  
Lexa escorts Clarke back to their tent. She helps Clarke unclasp and shrug out of the cloak, hangs it on a peg, and takes a moment to admire the view of slender back, flaring hips, and lovely round bottom its fabric had sadly concealed.

  
She opens one of the chests that line the walls. Careful, she pulls out her precious store of maps.

Clarke is immediately enraptured. Lexa steps back from the table to give Clarke space and watches her unroll them one by one. Clarke's fingers trace just above the careful lines and she gasps occasionally with delight.

Lexa feels a tinge of unease when Clarke lingers over a map that covers both the territory of their camp and the area where the invaders have placed their fortress. Clarke's hands are still, now, but her eyes appear to trace a route between the two locations, lingering on turning points and landmarks. 

Lexa finds that her own legs are moving, stepping forward-- but to what purpose? Is she going to yank away the map, store it outside of their tent? Tell the sentries to be alert for an omega attempting escape? Take away Clarke’s boots, make her walk around wincing on tender stocking-feet? Lexa's heart races, as if she has stumbled upon a bear in the woods, as if she stands on the edge of battle-- and Clarke looks up. The omega's expression is blank for a long moment but then she smiles, brilliantly.

“Thank you for sharing these with me, Lexa.”

Lexa's mouth goes dry at the low, husky sound of Clarke's murmuring voice. She swallows twice, licks her lips and sees that Clarke’s eyes are trained on her mouth.

Clarke has stood up from the table and somehow moved them both so that Lexa is backed into it. The table-edge is digging harshly into her thighs.

“So beautiful…” Clarke croons. Her face is very near to Lexa's. “The maps… thank you...”

Lexa reaches up to cup the soft curve of Clarke's cheek. Clarke leans into the contact for a moment, closes her eyes. When they blink open, her pupils are blown wide. Lexa bites down hard on her lower lip, staring at swelling black-within-blue, and then Clarke is leaning up towards her, closing the gap between their mouths.

***

  


Clarke did not have a plan, when she looked at the map and tried to trace the route she’d need to walk, to make it back.

Lexa’s hunters can track _deer_ , they’d have no trouble following the footsteps of an omega who has spent her entire life in corridors of metal and plastic. And if by some miracle Clarke did journey all to the way to the dropship-- what would she even find there? 

  
After the first alpha woman kidnapped Clarke, they had spent hours traversing a gigantic arc to avoid detection by the grounder army that the alpha told Clarke was camped just beyond the range of the Hundred’s exploring. 

Clarke would have screamed, to get that army’s attention and hope, if not for rescue, that she might at least escape in the ensuing chaos, except that the alpha was graphically explicit on how the leader of that army would kill Clarke, were he to discover her.

  
Clarke does not have a plan. Yet. If Lexa realizes that she is hoping to get away, though, Clarke is sure that _yet_ will quickly turn into _never_. The alpha’s competent command in any and all situations is incredibly attractive, except for how it will definitely screw everything up. 

So Clarke thinks fast. She kisses Lexa. And once their mouths meet, she stops thinking at all. 

  
Clarke is not inexperienced. She’d been kissing -- and more than kissing -- her alpha and omega age-mates for several years, before she was put into the Sky Box. 

In solitary, there was no one to kiss, or more than kiss. There was no one to touch, to talk to. Clarke smiled at the guards on the rare occasions that something brought them into her cell-- the person who delivered her meals was invisible, footsteps in the corridor and a rattle of the slot where the tray came through-- because Clarke was happy just from that, seeing another person's face. Even the face of a captor. But none of her guards would return eye contact, much less a smile. 

Out of the Sky Box, down on the ground, she’d kissed her first beta. Finn. 

  
With Lexa, Clarke expects it to feel like their different sexes signify, even though that's never happened before. She expects it to feel Alpha/Omega with capital letters, out of an Old Earth romance novel or a mediocre movie. Clarke expects Lexa to be rough. Lexa would take what she wants from Clarke, _ravage_ her-- Clarke certainly wouldn’t mind. 

Instead, Lexa is slow. Gentle. It’s just soft presses of half open mouths for so long that Clarke is shivery with wanting more, acutely oversensitive when Lexa finally, finally scrapes her teeth against Clarke's lower lip, ventures her tongue on a questing swipe into the hollow of Clarke's mouth.

Lexa's hand stays on Clarke's cheek, tilting her slightly to adjust the angle at which they slot together. Her thumb is stroking a hypnotizing pattern into the underside of Clarke's jaw. 

Her other hand is still on Clarke's hip. Clarke keeps expecting Lexa to move it somewhere more interesting, to grab and knead at her bottom, or slide it up under her shirt, pluck at the fierce ache in her nipples, but it stays stubbornly still.

When Clarke starts to move her own hands from where they've landed on Lexa's shoulders, reaching for bare skin, Lexa pulls back far enough to look at Clarke without going cross eyed. She gathers Clarke's wrists in a loose grip, lifts Clarke's hands up to her mouth, and kisses each of her bent fingers. She has Clarke’s hand spread open, is pressing her mouth into the center of Clarke's palm when there's a polite cough from the entrance to the tent.

Lexa actually _growls_ at the interruption. Clarke's skin ripples at the sound. But then Lexa shakes herself, posture impeccable and drops Clarke's arms and steps away towards the beta man. Her face is once again perfectly composed.

After his hurried, embarrassed explanation in their incomprehensible tongue, she doesn't even look back at Clarke before she strides out of the tent.

  
Clarke, temporarily abandoned, sags against the table and catches her breath. Then she leans down and does her best to memorize the still-open map.

***

  


Lexa can tell that her people are avoiding her eyes. At least they're not fearful, or angry. They're amused.

Lexa is distantly sympathetic.

  
Lexa was fourteen, two years into being Anya's second when Dina started paying attention to her First.

Costia was the one who'd said it, Lexa would never be so be disrespectful, but-- Anya was a grump. A “delightful grump,” in Costia’s description.

So it was odd, and very funny, to see Anya being patient when Dina asked foolish questions (Dina! Less than one year older than Lexa, and surely the silliest, most prissy omega that ever existed). Anya _smiling_ , when Dina needed help carrying things that were hardly heavy at all.

  
Lexa and Costia were in the flax field, laid down in the privacy of the tall plants, kissing lazily, when it all came to a head.

“You deserve better,” Anya kept saying. Lexa knew that there was no one in the world better than her first, but in other ways it was true: when they came to the village, they slept in a tent in all but the worst weather, and then they bedded down with the other bachelors on the floor of the meeting hut. Anya had recently been given command of a five-band (which was really an eight-band, when you counted Lexa and Costia and Jak, the three seconds, but no one said it that way), but it would still be years before Anya had the resources to establish a household. 

Dina should choose someone else to share her heat, someone older. Someone who could move her out from under her mother’s roof and into adulthood.

Dina’s answer was circuitous, but very firm. Her Unkaba, her sire's beta partner, was a trader, as Anya surely knew. His most recent trip had brought back cloth from the clans of the south, woven into patterns that no one in the woods had the skill to replicate. 

Dina thought she could figure out the method, with enough experimentation, but it would not be a fast or easy taks. Even once she had, there would be close counting and concentration, her first few times weaving an unfamiliar pattern. The distraction of a baby would be too much for someone who attempted such work. And if-- when--she succeeded, once Dina was the only local source for the beautiful cloth-- with such a monopoly, it might not take quite as long as Anya was estimating, before the two of them could make a home of their own.

  
Costia and Lexa had not taken any particular effort to be quiet, when they snuck away to give Anya and Dina privacy. A flock of crows could have landed on their heads and the other two would have hardly noticed them caw-ing, they were that wrapped up in each other.

  
Lexa had expected Dina’s mother to be displeased, when her daughter refused meals in the days following her heat. Didn’t every parent want grandchildren, the more and sooner the better? Typically, Costia was the one who actually asked Oemi, though, when the older omega only smiled calmly as Dina fasted away the scent of early pregnancy.

“I spent the first year and a half after I accepted Dina’s sire cycling from heat to pregnancy and immediately back again, before Dina’s oldest brother finally took hold for long enough to come to term,” Oemi explained. “Who knows why it is, that omega’s bodies are made so that we can conceive a child months or years before we’re developed enough to successfully carry. Dina has picked well in Anya, and she loses nothing by staying a daughter in my house a little bit longer.”

  
Even with Oemi's support, Anya had been tense and anxious every time as they traveled back to the village. She'd worried that Dina might have grown jealous of her friends and their new adult lives, that she would be living under some other alpha’s roof, carrying some other alpha’s child.

  
Anya was especially snappish after she grew close with Koen, when they were bringing him back to introduce to Dina.

Costia had speculated on it to what Lexa considered an inappropriate degree: what should Anya do, if Dina did not approve of the beta? If Anya threw Koen over and stuck with Dina, there would still be years left of waiting, with the possibility that Dina might change her mind at any time. If Anya picked Koen instead, with their combined resources she would be in a position sooner than otherwise to win the favor of some more agreeable omega.

It had taken Lexa weeks to realize the underlying cause of Costia’s preoccupation. “I am not sure I want to sire a child,” she’d finally had the wit to say, “but if I do, you and I will approve the babe’s mother together. I could never want someone who didn’t want you, too.”

  
And in the end it all worked out fine. Dina adored Koen, and he was similarly besotted by her, and Anya strode around beaming with pride. After that visit, whenever they were stationed near a village, Koen stopped spending his free time with the other warriors, drinking and boasting and wrestling, and started asking if he might examine people’s gardens.

  
Three years into the waiting, though, Dina had changed the plan. 

  
When Anya saw Dina walking towards them with a slight swell to her belly and a pronounced change to her scent, she'd went white, wheeled around, and dragged Lexa straight back to where they’d set up their tent. Once Koen joined them, the two had begun the process of getting very, very drunk. Until Dina finally showed up and snatched the cups out of their hands, asked Anya if she had been hit over the head and lost the skill of counting--Dina had conceived on their previous visit, when Anya shared her most recent heat. And then Dina had ordered Lexa and Koen and Anya about, made them air out the strong smell of spirts, rearranged all of their things and scolded them to be more careful as they hauled in her own, because she had decided that if canvass was the only roof Anya and Koen could offer, it would have to be enough.

Lexa knows that people talked, when Anya and Koen took Dina with them as they rode out of the village, but no one had actually tried to stop it.

Lexa was gone from Anya’s war party, raised up to Heda, before Kodiya was born. She’s heard the stories, though: he came into the world during the worst storm of the whole summer, while thunder boomed overhead and lightning struck a tree only a few hundred paces from their camp. 

Dina had kept him constantly on the breast for the rest of the war season, kept him too content to cry out and give them away to their enemies. And when at last they returned to the village, their spoils and the profit of Dina’s cloth had been enough to claim a plot of land and raise a house of their own. Koen had stayed with Dina in the village, after that, to chop wood and fetch water and tend to their garden, but Anya only visited her partners and son, and continued waging war.

  
Which is a long way of saying that Lexa knows. How simultaneously unnerving and hilarious it can be, watching someone who has always been serious and respected suddenly transformed by an omega's charms. But she is not the Anya of that time, head only of a five-band. She is not even the Anya of today, leading both her own and Tristan’s forces-- _three hundred warriors_. Lexa is _Heda_ , in charge of the entire Trikru. She must be beyond all human foibles.

Which is not to say that she is going to move Clarke out of her bed, much less out of her tent. Even the thought makes Lexa’s breath come too fast, makes her chest start aching. 

No, she will simply use Clarke's presence as a chance to demonstrate Heda's incredible restraint.

  
After the dispute between two warriors has been resolved, Lexa chases down all the other responsibilities she has been ignoring. She does not return to the tent-- to Clarke--until long after dark.

***

  


Lexa is still absent even after Clarke has finished eating dinner and the beta men have removed all of the dishes. Clarke thinks that she might expire from boredom. She put the maps away before her meal, but she can still see the path to the dropship as clear as day, whenever she closes her eyes.

For the past few hours, Clarke has continuously expected Lexa to come striding back into the tent with no warning. She yanks her shoulders upright when they start to slouch, sucks in her stomach, and tries to keep her hair and clothing tidy in anticipation Lexa’s gaze.

At a certain point, however, Clarke gives up on waiting. She changes into her sleeping shirt, and curls up on what is already her side of the bed.

  
Clarke had been quite looking forward to going to bed tonight, when she assumed Lexa would be with her. When she thought that going to bed would not be the same thing as _going to sleep_.

She is still thrumming from their too short encounter, excited-- and intensely curious.

  
At age ten, after Clarke and her friends learned about alpha women as part of the initial Health and Biology section, they had snickered together, squeamish and embarrassed. Clarke thought all descriptions of sex unappealing at that age, but if you did it with an alpha or beta man there was a mechanical aspect that made it almost hygienic-- you didn't have to touch or look at each other's embarrassing private places, you just let them stick their thing in and then it was over. Clarke planned to only do it one time, if she ever decided that she wanted a child.

With an alpha women-- there was an alpha girl in their age cohort, a year or two and two class levels ahead of them, and they all gave her sideways glances when they passed her in the corridors after that lesson-- there was no avoiding uncomfortable intimacy. In one girl's disgusted summary, sharing a heat with someone like Raven would mean that: “she’ll rub the between your legs together and ooze out her _stuff_ , and then she’ll _stick her fingers_ into you and shove her _stuff_ up inside.” _Gross_.

  
At age fifteen Clarke and her friends were laughing over Raven again, but this laughter was low, interested. For Clarke, it helped that she'd recently realized that having someone finger her was probably her favorite sexual activity, if the person between her legs knew what they were doing.

Raven would know, surely. Clarke's not entirely certain if it's something that's instinctive, for alpha women, the way that rutting is for alpha men-- but at sixteen Raven was already _gorgeous_ , with a confident cockiness that even those in lower classes knew was deserved-- Raven’s test scores were legend, and she was particularly skilled as a mechanic. “Of course she'd be _good with her hands_ ,” Clarke whispered to her friends, and they'd all flushed and then burst into giggles.

  
Lexa is not sixteen. She’s older than Clarke, must be at least as experienced, and she kisses like a dream. They have slept together the last three nights-- on their first night, Clarke lay next to her _naked_. Lexa isn’t cocky, not like Raven, but that’s because Lexa has nothing to prove-- she’s entirely certain of her own power and position.

Clarke lets her hands wander. She weighs her breasts in her cupped palms and imagines how they would feel to Lexa, all soft warm abundance. She strokes her flank from ribcage to waist to hip, sure that Lexa would appreciate the silky skin, the pronounced curve.

At a certain point Clarke grows impatient. She lets hand slide down to where she is slick and ready, rubbing determinedly until she finally comes. It would be better with Lexa, with the other woman’s skin against hers, warm breath, long slender fingers, but for now this will have to be enough.

  
Clarke is almost asleep when Lexa finally comes back.

She cracks her eyes open at the sound of the tent opening, soft footsteps. 

The tapers are still burning in their lanterns and it's enough light that Clarke can see the line between Lexa’s brows, the tension in her shoulders. The alpha is irritated, and tired.

  
Lexa is unbuckling her shoulder guard when she stops and sniffs deeply. Clarke feels immensely satisfied at the stunned expression on Lexa’s face once she puzzles out what she is smelling, what Clarke has been doing to entertain herself while Lexa was so inconsiderately gone. Clarke closes her eyes, struggling to relax her face as if slumbering when Lexa turns to look at her. _Leave me alone for hours, after kissing me like_ that, Clarke thinks, _well, I can take care of myself just fine._

When noises eventually resume, Clarke peeks out again. She spies on Lexa changing into her own nightshirt: brief glimpse of slim hips, muscular back and long, lean thighs.

  
Lexa snuffs out the tapers when she’s done, slides noiselessly into the bed. It’s a long moment before she drapes her customary arm over Clarke, and the touch is tentative. Ruthlessly, Clarke keeps her own breathing slow and easy until Lexa is soft and relaxed. Then she shifts closer, pushing her bottom into the other girl and stirring her hips in a slow circle. She lets herself half-moan at the contact, but quietly, artless, as if she is simply caught up in a particularly good dream.

Lexa’s arm tightens around Clarke, and her body is tense for a long time. Clarke grins, satisfied by the reaction, and finally falls asleep.

  
They are yanked into wakefulness while the tent is still pitch black and the sky outside is only starting to brighten with pre-dawn.

A messenger has arrived, travelling overnight by the light of the moon. A messenger from the leader of the army that crouches out of sight of the dropship: Clarke did not need to kiss Lexa to distract her from the map. Clarke is going back to the Hundred-- but not alone. Lexa and many of the camp's warriors will be coming with her.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> \--I'm ignoring most of Season 3, including its world building/the chip/the nightbloods, and all of Polis, both as spaceship and as major urban center. This is in large part because... I only watched a few clips from Season 3 and that's it. Yep! 
> 
> \--When Season 2 and Season 1 contradict each other in their portrayal of Grounder culture/technological advancement, a lot of the time I'm going with Season 1, because I like world building for scattered villages and loosely knit clans of ~semi-prehistoric~ Grounders (the Twelve Clans are not united into a single coalition btw, either-there's still a lot of intra-group conflict) so much better
> 
> \--No one survived in Mount Weather. There are world-building consistent explanations for this, but honestly I'm just _very bored_ with that plotline.
> 
> \--not really relevant to this chapter but for the record-- Raven was too distracted by interpersonal things (Finn's attraction to Clarke, her own attraction to Clarke, her feelings about Finn's attraction to Clarke, what to do about Bellamy's attraction to Clarke) when she crashed in to the ground to come up with idea of flares, once the radio was broken. So the hundred never accidentally burned down a Trikru village, and they're not in communication with the Ark, and the Ark doesn't know the earth is livable. Do people on the Ark survive the oxygen crisis? It's schrodingers cat in this case, so choose your own adventure.


	3. Chapter 3

Clarke and Lexa sit next to the embers of last night’s cooking fire, eating leftover meat and fried mush in the grey light before dawn. 

Around them, the camp shrinks with intimidating efficiency. No one seems to pause for conversation as horses are saddled, bags and trunks emerge from tents, and the tents themselves drift gracefully down to the ground, vanishing into tidy packets of bundled cloth and poles.

Astoundingly, no one has come to pester Lexa with further questions since she issued her initial instructions. Clarke imagines trying to achieve a similar feat of practiced coordination with the Hundred, and even the thought gives her a headache.

Scattered here and there amid the bustle, some of the tents are still standing, undisturbed. When Clarke asks about them, Lexa explains that the camp owes protection to three nearby villages. A skeleton crew will remain behind to honor that duty. And the creaking, sturdy carts will only be halfway to loaded when the riders set out, and will travel on a longer, but wider and smoother, route when they do depart, besides. 

  


Even with those subtractions, it’s a sizable party that staggers down the rugged trail once the outriders have established their lead. There are at least thirty riders in the main group, all of them bleary eyed and yawning into the manes of the horses.

  


_Horses._ Horses are _huge_. Not just tall, so tall that Clarke didn’t even make an attempt at getting up without a boost, but _broad_. It takes all of her concentration just to maintain her balance as the horse _moves_ underneath her, following its fellows.

Just when she’s starting to think she has the hang of this riding thing, someone at the front of the group gives a signal and all of the horses speed up and start _bouncing_ \--

Lexa’s wordless shout is high and thin with fear. Clarke rolls frantically out of the way of the gigantic, dirty hoof that is plunging towards her head. Horses whinny and rear as the party reins to a sudden halt. By the side of the trail, Clarke’s former mount feigns innocence, already nosing at a clump of grass.

A moment later, Lexa is crouched in the dirt, face soft with worry as she runs her hands along Clarke’s arms and legs. Clarke lets herself sink into the comforting touch, luxuriate in the warmth of Lexa’s obvious concern. She beams a smile that has Lexa reaching up to examine her skull, fingers pressing in gentle circles. “Clarke, where do you hurt? Did you hit your head when you fell? Stretch your arms and legs a little bit, Clarke, do it for me--”

She is _fine_. There’s a bruise already forming on her hip and thigh that will probably last for months, but it’s not debilitating. Once Lexa, convinced of her good health, has helped her to her feet, Clarke limps over to her duplicitous mount with weary resignation. She is embarrassed to have caused such a fuss, now that the shock of falling is behind her. She’s not going to make it even worse by literally refusing to get back up on the horse.

No. She doesn’t need to: Lexa does that for her.

  
  


By the third rest break it’s almost familiar. Carefully clambering down the side of whichever beast she and Lexa are currently riding, avoiding any jolts to her aching hip when she lands. Clarke disappears into the trees to pee and when she returns Lexa has already moved their special tandem saddle back over to her own original mount.

Lexa _lounges_ , on horseback, as comfortable as Clarke sprawled on the couch watching a soccer match. Clarke steps up onto the beta man’s cupped hands, he tosses her into the air, and Lexa steadies her as she shifts her leg over to the other side. 

They move out again, walk and then trot and then walk. Every time the gait slows, Clarke sighs with contentment and sinks into the easier side-to-side sway. Dried meat and fruit were passed around before they remounted, and now her belly is comfortably full. Lexa is pressed against her back, as tight and close as an airlock seal, and Lexa’s hips shift against her bottom every time the horse takes a step. Lexa’s arms, wrapped around her waist, feel as solid and dependable as bars of steel. And Lexa’s scent surrounds Clarke, too. Impossibly, she smells even more appealing than when they first met. 

Even such a happy daze can’t stop Clarke's thoughts forever, though. 

  


They are travelling back to the dropship. They are traveling back to the _Hundred_.

That’s good news: the Hundred survive. Better news: the current leader of Lexa’s army is Clarke’s former kidnapper, and by everything Clarke knows of the two alpha women, Anya is _not_ seeking to gruesomely murder all of Clarke’s compatriots. Or at least, she is not seeking to murder them at the present moment. Probably. Slaughter usually happens pre- or post- attempts at negotiation, Clarke is fairly sure, not simultaneous-with. 

The thing is, once the Hundred somehow puzzled out that Clarke’s disappearance resulted from being taken by Grounders, not dying unseen in the woods (and she is squirming with guilt over the thought of causing any of the Hundred grief-- she’s reasonably certain that Monty and Finn and Raven would mourn her loss, at least a little bit, and maybe Octavia too, although the beta girl’s walls are so high it’s hard to tell if she genuinely cares for anyone except her brother--) they refused to participate in further discussion with Anya’s forces unless the Grounders brought Clarke back to the dropship. 

Which honestly leaves Clarke extremely curious about exactly how it was that Bellamy lost his nominal control on things. Despite their frequent collaboration, she is 100% certain that if Bellamy were in charge, the Hundred would be throwing a party to celebrate her absence, not risking the Grounders’ anger in order to arrange her return. Her medical skills might be valuable, but they’ll never outweigh Bellamy’s loathing for her obstinate defiance of his every order. 

However it happened, though--she’s here, now. Surrounded by Grounders, cradled in Lexa’s embrace, riding through the woods. 

So, moving on: what will her role be, once they’re all occupying a single space?

Will she continue to act the part of The Grounder Alpha’s Omega Captive? (Replace “Grounder” with "Viking” and Clarke read the worst of that book aloud to Wells, up on the Ark. He’d grimaced at the blatant sexism and other historical inaccuracies, and thrown things at her, when she refused to stop despite his pleas. Although…. not _all_ of the book had been completely without redeeming social value. There were reasons it had never been deleted from the database to free up storage, and Clarke had skipped those passages while reading aloud only to revisit therm later, in the privacy of her bed). 

Alternatively: will Clarke, on return, step back into the role of the Hundred’s Princess? Will she once again uneasily share leadership with Bellamy, Raven their stabilizing third point? Sit between the two of them, across the negotiating table from the Grounders, determinedly ignoring Lexa’s many attractive traits in order to glare at her with the appropriate steely-eyed skepticism? 

It’s possibly a very good thing that she and Lexa have _still not had sex_. Or, maybe not.

It certainly _feels_ like not. Clarke only took the basic, mandatory units on Old Earth History, but going off the sheer number of forced-partnership-for-the-sake-of-political-alliance-leads-to-smoldering-passion plots in the romance novels she's read, it’s hard to believe there’s not at least a smidgen of grounding in historical fact. Although... in those books, sex between the main alpha and omega generally set the seal on _completed_ negotiations. Half the time the two met for the first time on the day they were bound, although beta characters operated under different narrative rules-- betas usually met both the alpha and the omega in the first few pages, became unrealistically attached to both of them almost immediately, and spent the rest of the book trying to reconcile them in time for the happy ending. 

If Bellamy was here, Clarke would ask him about the actual historical basis of those stories. If what Octavia says is true, she’d profit twice from the question: she'd get a thorough answer and the joy of embarrassing him, both. But he’s not. 

  


It’s already edging into twilight under the heavy tree cover of the woods, but the little clearing that hold the dropship is sunny with late afternoon. Clarke’s only been gone for one week but everywhere she looks is different than in her memory.

Most obvious: it’s hard to tell where the encircling ring that houses the Grounder army ends and the Hundred's encampment begins, because most of the Hundred’s makeshift, parachute-silk shelters have been replaced with sturdy tents of Grounder design. Delicious smells are wafting from the central bonfire, and several Grounder adults seem to be guiding Clarke’s peers through the complex steps of their food preparation techniques. It’s abundantly clear that calling a halt in formal negotiation has not put a pause on day-to-day collaboration.

  
  
Clarke has been feeling her fall more and more as the hours pass. The throbbing in her side combines with twinges from a day spent riding so that she is already dreading the thought of getting up tomorrow. She wonders if the Grounders remember that salicylic acid in willow bark makes it a natural NSAID. She wonders if, impossibly, the carts will arrive in time for her to have a nice hot soak before she goes to sleep. Is the bathtub even coming, or is it among the supplies left back at the old camp?

When Lexa dismounts first and then holds out her arms, it doesn't take any thought at all to accept the aid and tumble down into them.

On the ground, Clarke buries her face in Lexa's cloak and breathes in its smells of woodsmoke, sweat, and Lexa's own incredible personal scent while Lexa’s fingers massage circles into her aching lower back. 

When she finally emerges it's to Raven's voice. ”Clarke--!”

Over Raven’s shoulder, Clarke can see Lexa stiffening, sniffing deeply and frowning. When Bellamy untangles Clarke from Raven enough to add himself to the embrace-- so maybe he _was_ a part of demanding her return?-- she loses track of Lexa completely.

By the time Bellamy and Raven finally let her go, something like a reception line has formed. Half the camp apparently wants to welcome Clarke back, and urgently enough that they stop what they’re doing and wait for their turn to hug her, or tousle her hair, or kiss her cheek. 

The final person is a shock. Murphy shuffles uncomfortably, avoiding Clarke’s gaze while he mumbles something about having been relieved, when he heard she wasn’t dead, and then he leans in for the loosest, most awkward half-hug in existence. After he steps back, Clarke finds herself reaching up to tousle _his_ hair, breathing in his pleasant, mellow beta scent. It's such false advertising for the wretchedness of his actual personality.

The horse has disappeared, led away without Clarke realizing, but Lexa is still hovering only a few feet away. One eye on Clarke, she chats with Raven and Bellamy, who are united in an opposition: chins jutting forward, arms crossed. Lexa does not acknowledge their aggression. Her shoulders are loose and she gestures easily with her hands, as if their challenge is too far beneath her to even notice.

***

According to Lexa’s milk-mother, she’s been solemn since the day she was born. “Bright eyes, big ears, and lips pressed together in a frown,” her milk-mother teased, “what are you thinking as you listen to our laughing and conversation, little one?” Becoming Heda has only made her more cautious, more controlled.

So it’s especially embarrassing, the way she is currently struggling to refrain from snarling at the alphas, Raven and Bellamy. The way she is having to stop herself from tugging Clarke away to the privacy of their-- her?-- newly assembled tent. But she is an adult, not an adolescent alpha boy. More than that, she is Heda, and in truth Raven and Bellamy have just as much of a right to linger in Clarke’s presence as she does, even if their scent on the omega have been thoroughly replaced by Lexa’s own. 

Indeed, Clarke seems pleased by Raven and Bellamy’s company, as all three of them trail her into the odd fortress to make a review of the wounded.

A quiet young alpha boy, Monty, explains the limited treatment he’s undertaken of each of their injured, and what the signs and symptoms were. For hurts that occurred during Clarke’s absence, Raven and Bellamy volunteer further context-- the omega with the burn was clumsy while cooking, the alpha strained his back play-wrestling, despite being told repeatedly to stop. Clarke listens, attentive. Her blue eyes stay trained on whoever is speaking's face, tongue curling over her top-teeth in the intensity of her focus. Occasionally she interrupts their recitation to chase down news that surprises her, gaining a fuller picture of the changes her people have undergone while she was taken.

 

But! However much the other alphas cling to Clarke's shadow. Even if Raven claims Clarke’s other side, when she settles down cross legged in the bare dirt after being handed a bowl of the dinner stew. Despite the fact that Bellamy immediately drops down across from Clarke, so close that their knees touch, Lexa was the one who _sat down first_. It was Clarke's _choice_ to place herself beside Lexa, to accept the supporting grip Lexa offered as she maneuvered to bend her aching legs.

By the time that they depart for bed, Lexa is calm and smug. Bellamy and Raven can chase after Clarke as much as they like-- Clarke lets Lexa hoist her up, drapes her arm over Lexa's shoulder, and accepts Lexa's support and guidance on the path to her-- their!-- tent.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter contains heat sex. I don't see it as dub con but ymmv.

“Negotiation?” Lexa quirks an eyebrow at Anya, who shrugs unrepentantly.

“Once they realized she was alive and we’d taken her, they wouldn't let us come into their camp. They wouldn’t accept any aid, no food or shelter, until I agreed to have you bring her back. It's hard courting with no trust, Heda.”

Lexa snorts, amused. Courting is a good word for the way her army of alphas and betas, most of them never mated, much less partnered, interacts with the invader-- the Hundred, they call themselves, although there are only eighty-four of them by Lexa's count-- omegas.

Any negotiation over the fate of those omegas will deal only in details. Lexa _is_ going to fold them into her people. Whether the Hundred like it, or not. Oh, the timeline is still uncertain, but there’s a general consensus among her warriors that these omegas should be out of their tents and inside the sturdy walls of village houses long before first snowfall. 

Once the cold sets in, Lexa can’t see them protesting that change in location overly much. And that means there’s not a lot of urgency, now, while sunny afternoons are still almost uncomfortably warm. There's no need, yet, to try and convince the invaders to leave their shabby little camp. 

When the rain lashes the ground and the wind whistles through every gap in the fabric of the tents, though-- then, Lexa will bring the omegas back to the villages using any means necessary. Which leaves a question hanging over the fate of the Hundred’s eleven betas, and their thirty-nine alphas. If they resist, when the Trikru takes away their omegas, Lexa will not think twice about having every last one of them killed. 

Best if it doesn’t come to that. Killing the alphas and betas would inevitably make things harder with the omegas. It would all but guarantee a few sullen months, perhaps even years, while they worked through resentful grief and came to accept new circumstances. That’s how it usually goes when omegas are taken. Lexa has never heard of a single one who was joyful to be stolen from her clan and kin, at the beginning. On the other hand... she’s not heard of a single taken omega who didn’t adjust in the end. It might take several years, even the birth of a child, but these things works themselves out. 

And if her army _is_ put in the position of having to kill the Hundred's alphas and betas, Lexa will take care to divide the omegas up, when she gifts them to her warriors. She’ll ensure that each girl is alone in her new village. Having no company but strangers can only encourage the omegas to adapt that much more quickly.

Lexa shakes her head, trying to jostle the dark thoughts loose-- in planning this far ahead, she is just borrowing trouble. She is fairly certain that the omegas can be convinced to come willingly. In that case, if they insist --and Lexa expects that they will, if Clarke is any sample to judge by-- Lexa will have to take the alphas and betas in along with them or lose any chance of further good behavior.

That thought poses plenty of new challenges of its own. She can just imagine the Hundred wanting to join a single village, all together. She'd much prefer to scatter them, though: it would dilute their strangeness, and split the burden of supporting so many dependents among multiple communities. Based on their shocking ignorance, every member of the Hundred looks to be a non-contributing mouth to feed, at least initially.

 

Even this is fretting over how to ford tomorrow’s river, though, when there's a creek currently splashing around her boots: much sooner than the first snowfall, Lexa is going to have to decide which ten-bands of warriors will stay here in the Western woods, and which return to their original postings. And she must arrange to feed the Hundred and those warriors who remain, without overhunting the surrounding areas. As they are currently on the path towards doing, according to the hunt-masters, and that’s a disaster in the making for the nearby villages.

When she gives many of her warriors the order to muster out, to ride away from the Hundred's omegas-- they are not going to be pleased. 

Never mind that the only partnership brewing so far, between one of the Hundred and any of Lexa's warriors, is the flirtation of Anya’s alpha scout, Lincoln, with a beta girl, Bellamy's younger sister. Lexa's warriors are still convinced that they have a much better chance with the Hundred's omegas, here, with only the Hundred’s stripling alphas and betas as competition, than they would with the Trikru's own omegas, in the villages. Than they would with the Hundred's omegas in the villages also, where comparison with older, settled alphas would show these warriors as nothing but young bachelors. Assuming that strength and prosperity and the ability to support a household are qualities that the Hundred’s omegas look for in mates and partners, as surely they must be.

 

Lexa tries to think it through, six months, six years, what will happen if her warriors succeed in their courting and every one of the Hundred’s omegas is in partnership before they leave the camp. She has learned as Heda that everything has ripple effects, and the detritus those small currents knock loose can, hundreds of paces downstream, snag on a weir in such a way as to bring it tumbling down, or block the flow of a small creek until it overflows its banks. 

So. Forty two available omegas-- forty three, including Clarke in the count, which in this case Lexa does not. Some alphas will surely continue on the war trail despite having established households, as Anya has done. But only if there is also a beta in the partnership, a beta staying in the village, a beta there to comfort and support the omega. And, counterbalancing the alphas who will be willing to leave their omegas for weeks and months at a time, some alphas and betas who are partners will _both_ take the opportunity to retire from the fight. On the other hand, some of the alpha warriors are partnered with village betas, not fellow fighters. And a few of the partnerships among the warriors are one alpha and two, or even three, betas. 

And this is still counting chicks before the eggs hatch: even if each of the Hundred’s omegas accepts a warrior as mate and partner here, in the camp, some of them may still change their minds once they reach the villages -- as Lexa's eldest brother, Tobe’s, almost-partner did, the omega that Tobe took during a raid on the Lake Clan, two years before Lake and Trikru became allies. 

 

Emi had refused Tobe’s attentions for the first two heats she spent under Lexa's mother's roof, then relented and taken him into her bed for her third. And after she was safely carrying and they were again accepting guests, she’d smiled back at Lexa's mother's youngest brother and his beta woman's flirting, at the dinner celebrating their return from the latest trading expedition. Three days after that first visit, Emi had said she was going to fetch water and strolled out from under Lexa’s mother’s roof with nothing but the clothes on her back. And she’d stopped off at Auntie’s house on the way to the spring, and preceded to rut with Lexa's Uncle until the smell of Lexa's potential niece or nephew went away.

Tobe had complained about it bitterly, of course. He’d gotten drunk and vehemently cursed the fickleness of omegas, demonstrated by the fact that Emi had taken seven moons under the same roof before she let him mate her, and she’d chosen Uncle after one evening’s acquaintance. Lexa hadn't said anything but, with the wisdom of hindsight, she's not sure Emi ever actually _chose_ Tobe at all. 

Auntie, who is significantly older than Uncle, having partnered with him after the loss of her first alpha, and who only bore one child to be cousin to Lexa before her heats stopped completely, became very close to Emi almost immediately. Even back when Emi was newly taken and scarcely willing to look at the rest of Lexa’s family members, she would answer Auntie’s questions, and let Auntie brush out her hair. 

And Auntie's beta, a kind man who has been with her since her first alpha, became so close to Emi that she lay with him to end her second heat. Lexa hadn't known that was a thing omegas could do. The twins, of course, had acted very worldly when they explained that Emi wouldn't have enjoyed it, not while she was in heat, but all omegas know that spunk from a beta man ends heat as quickly as spunk from an alpha does.

And if Emi had done the same thing for her third heat, if she was still refusing Tobe when Uncle returned, well. Lexa's mother would never have invited any alpha under her roof, even her favorite brother, with more than three moons remaining in the year of seclusion that every household is permitted after an omega is taken, the quarantine that guarantees the capturing alpha every possible advantage in pressing his or her suit. 

Tobe had hoped to get Emi back, at first. He’d taken stupid risks on raids, as if winning enough treasure might impress her, but he'd admitted defeat after the first set of twins was born. 

And Emi has given Lexa twelve cousins in five pregnancies, triplets twice and not a single-birth once. Auntie and Uncle’s beta woman, who gave up going trading with Uncle as soon as Emi was carrying the second time, look almost too smug to live as they help to nurse the babes, at least according to the twins. And Uncle brought Emi's two older children back to live with them too, once Trikru made peace with the Lake Clan and, well, it’s a good thing there are five parents for that household. And it’s been years since Tobe disappeared beneath the river, trying to impress an omega from the village and betting badly on thin ice. Nowadays, even the twins will admit that he was overly reckless, and that all eight of Emi’s surviving children are healthy and well-behaved. 

Which is a long way of saying that you can never entirely predict what an omega will do. 

 

But chances are: Lexa will lose a little over sixty warriors come spring, if every one of the Hundred’s omegas takes a mate while they’re here in the woods. Well, that won’t cripple the Wood Clan by any means, but her plans will be a little more defensive, a little less aggressive. Her warriors will go on fewer raids. They’ll take less treasure. 

On the other hand, the productivity of the new households will, most likely, more than replace the losses of reduced raiding. And in their friendships with the Lake Clan, with the Boat People, it’s been strong trade webs, as much or more than strength in arms, that led to coalition. 

So there’s no hidden long-term harm in tarrying, no need to rush the Hundred’s omegas to leave their camp before they’re ready to go. Lexa will let them take their time. 

 

Clarke tips over into heat on a day that dawns drizzly and grey. The humidity deadens Lexa's sense of smell, so that at first she doesn't notice the surge in Clarke's pheromones.

From the moment she wakes up that day, Clarke is constantly moving. She plucks at the sleeves and neck of her shirt, pushes her hair back behind her ear every time it falls forward. She only picks at the breakfast tray, and bounds eagerly out of the tent as soon as Lexa is ready to accompany her, tightly wrapped against the chill in her borrowed cloak.

By midmorning the gloom has burned off and by lunchtime, as Clarke and Lexa and Anya and Raven and Bellamy sit together on the fallen logs, in the sunlight at the center of the camp, it’s almost hot. 

They were discussing hunting as they claimed their portions. More specifically, they were discussing not hunting. Not setting traps, which the Hundred are almost skillful with now, and sticking instead to bows, which most of the Hundred can barely draw, much less aim, to ensure that they only take antlered male deer, leaving the does untouched to birth plenty of fawns come spring.

There's confusion at first, stemming from the fact that Clarke, Bellamy, and Raven all have a vague idea that it works the other way, that instead it's the bucks and stags who must be protected, for the sake of a healthy one-to-one ratio.

“I guess it was different before the bombs,” Raven finally shrugs. “They must have overhunted the male deer to make trophies of their antlers.”

Lexa and Anya exchange glances. It's a continual astonishment, the confidence with which the Hundred state facts about the Before Times.

Next to Lexa, Clarke gathers her hair up on top of her head, a few strands sticking to the sweat that is glistening on her neck. She fans herself and then shrugs out of the cloak, letting loose a waft of trapped scent.

There are dark triangles of sweat underneath Clarke’s arms, when she raises them to regather the hair that tumbled down as soon as she let it go. Lexa stops listening to the conversation as she stares at the faint rise of Clarke’s nipples, which are pebbling through her shirt. When she finally drags her eyes away and glances around to see if anyone else noticed her watching, Clarke is obliviously trying to tie her hair into a knot that will stay up on its own, and Raven and Bellamy have fallen silent, locked onto the sight of her breasts. 

Anya, across from Lexa, mostly looks amused, but when the conversation finally resumes only to immediately devolve into argument -- Raven and Bellamy suddenly suggesting that the move away from traps is a plot to hamstring the Hundred’s hunters, to render them dependent on Lexa’s warriors for support-- Anya breaks in to firmly suggest they all go their separate ways and resume the discussion at a later time.

“Clarke looks flushed,” Anya finishes. “Lexa, I think you should get her out of the sun.”

Bellamy and Raven look mulish, when Lexa helps Clarke to her feet, guides her towards the coolness and privacy of their tent, but they don’t actually try to stop them leaving.

***

Lexa is in profile, arms raised, undoing the straps of her shoulder guard. Clarke has a flash of deja vu. She'd watched Lexa perform the same action days ago, lying in bed at the old camp, her thighs sticky from taking matters into her own hands. Literally. After Lexa, so discourteously, broke off their kiss and abandoned Clarke. Left her entirely untethered, drifting in the black without an ounce of nitrogen in her thrusters. Well, to continue that metaphor, she managed to maneuver back to the airlock just fine on her own, thank you, but she's in no mood to have to do so again.

She has been increasingly aroused all day. This desire, impossibly, never plateaued, never decreased or cycled but just climbed, higher and higher. She feels like a quivering guy wire, about to snap. And with Lexa looking like she plans to stay in their tent, Clarke won’t even have the privacy to try for a manual release of tension.

Nevermind the lurking suspicion that her own fingers aren’t going to be anywhere near enough this time, that she requires someone else's skin dragging along her own. Someone else's saliva as their mouths meet, someone else’s scent, strong with proximity and mixing with the smell of sex, wafting in on each inhale, sparking a signal that will travel swiftly from her nasal receptors to her glomeruli. An olfactory sign that will combine with the others to tell her brain that, at last, Clarke is being fucked. Truly, properly, thoroughly fucked. Fucked by someone else, fucked by an alpha, which is an odd distinction because she’s never had a preference as to the sex of her hookups, before.

Clarke breathes slow and deep, trying to push away the intrusive thoughts of what would sate her ardor. All this actually accomplishes is to remind her just how good Lexa smells. 

 

“Hey.” Clarke’s finger is poking hard against Lexa’s chest. Lexa takes a step back, and Clarke follows her, crowding close. “You need to decide what you want, Lexa. You keep me in your bed. You touch me constantly-- your hands are always on my shoulders, my back, my waist. But you’ve only kissed me once, days and days ago, and that time _I kissed you first_. You've been working me up and you don't follow through. Well, Lexa, I’m done with this waiting. If you're not going to fuck me, I'll walk out and find someone who will.”

Lexa's voice is a croak. “Someone who will? You mean Raven or Bellamy.”

Clarke shrugs. The idea of either friend is not unappealing, as worked up as she is, and Lexa's possessiveness, her clear dismay at the thought of anyone else becoming intimate with Clarke, is only arousing her further.

“Maybe. Bellamy, I’d wait for him in his tent. Ask him to just, please, fuck me, when he walked in and wondered what I was doing there. He'd be shocked by the request at first, we’re not like that, we're barely friends. But I'd get my shirt off fast, put his big, warm hands on my tits, tell him I needed someone to do the job you're not up for--do you think he'd reject me, once I offered myself to him like that?”

Lexa's lips are pulling back into a silent snarl.

“Bellamy has such nice hands,” Clarke continues. Lexa's pupils are blown huge, a mesmerizing sight. “We'd make a pretty picture. His tan skin and my pale breasts. His fingers pinching my nipples, tugging hard, so that I moaned, and then slipping down, down...”

Clarke is matching word to deed. She yanks her shirt over her head and then undoes the buckle on her belt so that her trousers hang loose. For a moment, she pauses just to preen under Lexa's open mouthed gaze, before pressing her breasts together to create truly impressive cleavage. Letting go, she shifts so that one hand twiddles a nipple while the other starts a slow journey, over the bumps of her ribs and the softness of her stomach, squeezing down under her waistband.

Lexa grabs Clarke's wrist, arresting the descent, just when Clarke's fingers are barely brushing her clit. It's a dry, glancing touch that almost hurts, with no slickness slid up to smooth the contact. Clarke manages to press down anyway, circling the little nub firmly as her other hand continues to work at her breast. She doesn't even try to mask her shaky breathing, letting out a full-throated moan.

Lexa's tight grip leaves white marks on Clarke's forearm that flush red a moment later when she lets go. Her hand pushes past Clarke’s until her fingers are dragging through Clarke's folds. She hums at the wetness she finds, the corners of her mouth turning up happily as she spreads Clarke open. Smooth slippery slickness follows her thumb as it supplants Clarke's own hand against her clit.>

Eventually, Lexa withdraws enough to pull Clarke's pants all the way down, over the obstruction of still laced boots. Her face is sweaty and flushed as she rises, tiny curls coming loose to twine along her temples and hairline. Clarke grabs at Lexa's shoulders for balance when Lexa hoists one of Clarke's knees up, drapes it over her own hipbone. 

The new position leaves Clarke helplessly open, splayed out for Lexa's pleasure as she shifts to gently pet at Clarke’s cunt. For an endless moment Clarke is reduced to the feeling of Lexa's flat, pressed together fingers and the firm cup of her palm. Clarke trembles, shifts fruitlessly in search of sharper contact, and the hand that’s been kneading at her bottom moves to grab her unbruised hip, holding her still. She is utterly exposed, prettily presented for Lexa's pleasure if she cares to look down: flushed nubbin of clit, crinkly, swollen dark pink folds, creamy white slick welling out from her center, spreading under Lexa's hand. All of Clarke is vulnerable, all of Clarke is open for Lexa to stroke or rub, to tease or fuck, however -- and whenever-- she likes.

 

By the time they hit the bed, Clarke has already come once. Their clothes are a trail on the floor behind them, all that's remaining is their tightly laced footwear. Clarke sinks under the pressure of Lexa's hands until she's perched on the edge of the mattress as Lexa bends to remove this last impediment. Her head is level with Clarke's pelvis and she leans in, sucks hard against Clarke's unbruised hipbone as she works the first boot free.

“You smell so good,” she whispers once they're level again, as she's laying Clarke out on the bed and shoving Clarke's thighs wide open and pressing the two of them together, cunt to cunt. Strong, callused hands reach between them, spread their outer labia so that they are sliding against each other, slippery and slick.

Clarke has never scissored before but she supposes it's nice enough, and Lexa certainly seems to like it. They've only been rubbing together for a few minutes when Lexa's breath catches and she buries her face in Clarke's neck, going still for a long moment before collapsing into a surprisingly heavy weight. All muscle, Clarke thinks, tracing her nails down the bumps of Lexa's spine. When Lexa finally shifts against Clarke again, the space between their legs is, if possible, even wetter than before.

And then Lexa's fingers are between the two of them again, fucking into Clarke, hitting her g-spot with a steady pound. Lexa’s thumb pulls away from her clit after she comes, while she's still too sensitive for the contact to feel good, but the two fingers stay buried inside, shifting subtly. 

Once Clarke is recovered, starting to rock her hips to chase the slight movement, Lexa adds a third finger. She bends Clarke's legs up so that her knees are by her ears, her ankles hanging over Lexa's shoulders. Clarke is pinned to the bed, impossibly, deliciously, painfully full, staring up into Lexa's blown-pupiled eyes and panting shallowly as Lexa works a fourth finger up inside of her, positioned so that she can't do anything but take, take everything Lexa cares to give her.

 


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Second Act. If you were bothered by the things lurking under the surface to this point, be warned they're about to get a lot more real and ugly. We're about to fire every one Chekov's guns. Specific warnings in end notes.

There’s a phrase from Old Earth -- it might apply now, too, Clarke’s still getting the measure of the Grounder’s tech levels -- _the floodgates have been opened_. Which is all to say that, once they start having sex, they don’t stop. Nearly literally. 

The morning after, Clarke orders herself a bath and breakfast, and she feels almost human by the time Lexa finally yawns and stretches out and wakes up fast once she realizes Clarke is no longer lying beside her. And then Lexa completely undoes all of Clarke’s progress towards respectability, pulling Clarke back into bed, holding her hips down and eating her out until the idea of further sensation is almost painful. 

“You smell perfect,” Lexa disagrees, when Clarke asks if she can join Lexa at the washbasin afterwards. She helps Clarke braid her sweaty, tangled hair back, at least, so she’s more or less presentable when she finally emerges back into public, but Clarke is still pretty sure that anyone who gets within three meters can scent exactly what they’ve been up to. 

 

Actually, that’s it’s own pattern: Lexa doesn’t like to let Clarke leave the tent in the mornings until they’ve fucked, and if Clarke decides to follow that with attention to hygiene, Lexa inevitably finds a way to erase all of her efforts. Eventually, Clarke gets into the habit of bathing in the evenings.

 

Lexa seems to be easily provoked to jealousy, too: Clarke spends a morning training on archery, letting a variety of warriors stand close to give instructions and adjust her grip, and Lexa drags her off to the woods at lunchtime, turns her around and fucks her into a tree. That makes Clarke late to a meeting with Monty, but-- even when the sex is a little inconvenient, she doesn’t exactly _mind_.

 

It’s a cold night when everything falls apart. The coldest Clarke has ever experienced, she’s pretty sure, even that time when temperature regulation failed for more than twelve hours, and the Sky Box was shadow-wards for ten of them. The Hundred have mostly switched to borrowed Grounder clothing and usually they all blend together, but for once it’s obvious who is who. The Hundred are the ones inching closer and closer to the bonfires, shivering, while the Grounders don’t seem affected at all. Clarke slinks off ridiculously early, choosing the warmth of bed-furs over company and conversation, and she’s not the only one. 

Lexa laughs, when she finally comes in and sees Clarke almost buried at the center of the bed. “I suppose there's a chance it might frost tonight,” she murmurs, pulling her shirt off over her head with nary a flinch at the icy air, “but these tents are sufficient for deep snow and fierce wind.” 

As she slides in next to Clarke, Lexa boasts that, when she was a Second, she slept in a tent less well made than theirs for all but a few nights of the year. “We’d only go indoors during the worst blizzards.” This idiotic stoicism, according to Lexa, “proves that you and your Hundred are”-- and her hand, which has inched under the hem of Clarke's sleepshirt, darts up to poke at the pooch of her belly-- “delightfully-- I mean, ridiculously--soft and tender.” There’s a several minute break in conversation at that point, for the purpose of kissing. 

Eventually, though, Clarke pulls away. Then she huffs, and shoves an elbow into Lexa's ribs. “We're not soft. You Grounders are just so numbed that you no longer feel anything.”

She can _hear_ Lexa’s grin. “Of course you are correct, great healer. I yield to your expertise.” Lexa’s hand drifts further up as she speaks, until she’s just barely brushing Clarke's nipple, and her voice turns to pure husk: “And I must say…” Clarke gasps into the touch, straightening her legs and bowing her spine, but Lexa’s draws back slightly, keeping the contact tortuously light, “the Hundred’s greater sensitivity is certainly noted and appreciated.” She is still teasing Clarke, two fingers drawing a circle around Clarke’s areola and avoiding the peak, as her voice grows more serious. “Truly though, if this feels cold to you, I want to have you and the rest of your omegas moved into the villages even earlier than we’d planned.”

 

Clarke goes still.

As an abstract idea, she’s not opposed to thicker walls between her people and the oncoming winter. Although there’s something of defeat in the thought of completely abandoning the Dropship, which still represents their last tenuous connection to the Ark. 

But. That “have you moved,” as if the Hundred were passive objects, not people. And the specification of “your omegas,” rather than a more inclusive “your people” or “you Hundred.” That “we’d planned,” when Clarke is just hearing this for the first time. She isn’t included in that plan-making “we”, and she’s pretty sure Raven and Bellamy aren’t either. She’s concerned. 

As she asks for clarification and Lexa answers easily, that concern deepens into near horror.

 

Lexa’s fingers have stilled but she’s still cradling Clarke’s breast when, almost exasperated, she explains that of course her army would _take_ the Hundred’s omegas if anyone protested the move, but it’s unlikely that force will be necessary. Even with half her warriors returned to other tasks, Lexa’s fighters still outnumber the Hundred by such a large margin that only an idiot would stand against them, “and judging by you-- and everyone else I’ve met-- Clarke, your people are very clever.”

Clarke tries to keep her voice light, as if it’s only idle curiosity. “If some did resist, though? Would you kill them? Would you kill us all?” 

Lexa buries her laughter in Clarke’s neck. She’s almost shaking with amusement. “Of course we would not kill you _all_ , Clarke. Only the alphas and betas. You omegas we’d take, that’s the entire point,” and she rises up until she can lean over to kiss Clarke again, very sweetly and thoroughly, ending the conversation. 

 

Clarke is numb. 

 

“Go to sleep,” Lexa whispers, finally, later. “I know you’re tired. You work so hard, taking care of your people. They are lucky to have you, as a leader and as a healer.” She pulls the mussed covers all the way up and tucks them around Clarke’s shoulders, snuggles tightly into her side. Within a few minutes, Lexa is breathing deeply and heavily, fast asleep. 

Clarke, on the other hand, stays awake for a very long time. 

 

Clarke wakes up with a hot, wet mouth sucking bruises into her shoulder and throat, and she disconnects her brain. She lets herself sigh and moan, when Lexa rolls her onto her back, when Lexa spreads her legs and goes to work between them. Once Lexa is satisfied, once she’s made Clarke come twice, she shifts them so that Clarke is lying on top, cradled against her. With still damp fingers, she adjusts Clarke’s chin so that they are staring into each other’s eyes. 

”Is everything ok?” 

Clarke makes herself nods, makes herself smile, leans down into a lingering kiss. 

 

Octavia is outside their tent when they emerge. By the looks on the guards’ faces, she’s been waiting for a while. 

Clarke is still reeling from Lexa's revelation of the night before. She spent sleepless hours wondering if she should track down Bellamy and Raven, if she should tell them what Lexa said or keep silent. The thing is, it’s true: if the Hundred resist, Lexa’s forces can easily destroy them. 

And... while Lexa’s motivations are sexist and disgusting, what she describes is still probably the best outcome for Clarke's people. Clarke’s time with the Grounders has made it clear: leaving aside the threat of violence, even if the Hundred somehow managed to run away and disappear, they don’t have the skills or resources it would take to make it longterm on the ground all alone. Yes, being adopted into the Grounder community represents the best thing that could happen to them, never mind the motivation behind the Grounders’ open arms. Standing in the way of that out of mere squeamishness would mean Clarke was acting in the exact opposite of the Hundred’s best interests. 

And let’s say she tells Bellamy and Raven everything that Lexa has said, so that they can bear the burden of decision-making. Will offended principle make them stubborn and stupid? How many people would die? It feels like an awful rehash of her father’s decision about the life support failure, and she can’t help but remember that _everyone_ in leadership on the Ark, even Clarke’s own mother, was certain that Jake made the wrong choice. 

 

“Can I borrow Clarke?” 

When Lexa lets go of Clarke’s hand, Octavia takes it. She pulls Clarke all of the way out of the camp, several hundred feet into the surrounding woods, where they can have true privacy. Confusion and worry over what Octavia would have to tell her that requires this level of isolation is enough to temporarily distract Clarke from last night's revelations. 

What Octavia actually _says_ doesn’t make any sense. 

“When you and Lexa disappeared that day for the whole afternoon and evening, you were having sex.”

Clarke gapes at Octavia. It’s such a personal question that she’s flabbergasted. Her mind races with explanations for where Octavia is coming from. 

Is Octavia accusative, does she think it’s a betrayal for Clarke to be so intimate with the Grounder’s leader? Maybe she is considering sex with Lincoln, and feels unsure. This could be her very awkward way of looking for supportive conversation, approaching Clarke as the closest thing to a medical professional. Octavia would hardly have taken the early Health and Human Biology units, hidden away as she was beneath her family’s floor. Although-- everyone in the Sky Box, outside of Solitary, was supposed to have remote, non-participatory access to non-specialization classes, and the last HHB unit was taught at sixteen, Octavia should have had a chance to catch up--

“Yes or no, Clarke?” Octavia is mulish. “It’s not a hard question.”

“Yes,” Clarke answers, tentative. 

Octavia’s nod is grim. “And you had sex for a _really long time_ , and then you slept for a really long time. That’s why you two just vanished but none of the Grounders seemed worried. Did you know they refused to roust you out even though Bellamy and Raven asked, when Mbege and Murphy had their big fight?”

“Octavia, I don’t really see that it’s any of your business -- the details of Lexa and my--”

Octavia shakes her head, interrupting. “You don’t get it, Clarke. I didn’t believe it at first when Lincoln told me, but he’s right. You’re pregnant.”

 

Clarke is too taken aback to speak. In the sudden silence, the wind rattles against the half-bare branches and some bird calls out, high in the trees. 

“I’m not pregnant,” Clarke finally says, voice firm. “Octavia, there is absolutely no way I could be pregnant. I don’t know what Bellamy might have told you, if he wanted to scare you into celibacy or something, but the only way sex ever leads to pregnancy is if you’re an omega and you’re in heat. The frequency of sex, the duration, those aren’t actually factors.”

“Right.” Octavia is looking at her like she’s an idiot. “Ok. Clarke, how would you induce heat, if you were on the Ark? What would you prescribe?”

Clarke lists it off easily at first, then stumbles as she begins to recognize the conditions she’s describing. “Increased rations, first of all, with a focus on more fat and protein than standard. And supplements, with all the minerals and vitamins Aggro has trouble making in bulk. If you don’t see a spike in both estrogen and follicle stimulating hormone within three weeks of... the change in diet… you... move the patient into quarters that have been programmed with patterns of light/darkness and heat/cold that echo autumn on Earth. Shortening periods of full brightness with a red/blue/red shift throughout the day. And the room temperature must change between day and night, with a gradual increase in coldness. Because--” she is speaking in a rush now, on autopilot, “--in evolutionary history, a baby conceived in the fall would be born into the abundant food supply of summer, with the highest chance of survival.” 

“Right.” Octavia puts a sympathetic hand on Clarke’s shoulder. “We have to do all of that special, deliberate, on the Ark. On the ground--”

“Natural conditions are enough.” Clarke finishes the sentence with horror. “I went into an unplanned heat, and that’s why Lexa and I had that sex marathon. And now there’s a very good chance I’m pregnant.”

Octavia presses her lips together and exhales slowly. “No, Clarke. You’re definitely pregnant. The Grounders all thought you knew, that you’d gone into heat and mated with Lexa. Lincoln only mentioned something to me because now your scent is changing in a way that confirms at least one embryo implantation.” Octavia smiles ruefully. “He wanted me to pass on his congratulations.”

 

Even without Lexa’s revelations last night, it would still have been an unpleasant shock to learn she’s with child. Clarke expected to wait until she was well on her way to Head of Medicine before she induced heat-- another decade at least. If she’d applied to become pregnant on the Ark at newly eighteen, the council would have laughed in her face. To them, no one was considered adult enough to parent until establishing a career-- and she certainly doesn’t feel mature enough to care for a baby! Add in the fact that she met Lexa less than two months ago… they don’t have nearly enough relationship history to be confident in their ability to co-parent. 

But knowing what she does now. Knowing the way that Lexa thinks of her and the other omegas-- Lexa probably see this pregnancy as everything _going according to plan_ \-- Clarke feels sick. 

 

Octavia kicks leaves and dirt over the mess of Clarke’s former breakfast. She looks incredibly uncomfortable. “If you were anyone else, I’d say you should go talk to yourself.” 

Despite herself, Clarke laughs. But it’s an idea, in its own way. “No but, walk me back to the Dropship? I should check and see if we have any new patients. And talking this over with Monty would be a comfort.”

Octavia’s arms swing loosely as she walks. Covertly, Clarke examines the girl next to her. Octavia’s hair is intricately braided, presumably by Lincoln. There’s a-- it’s not a softness, really, Octavia will never be soft, but a lessening of hurt. A lessening of bitterness, of defensive, lonely anger. Her relationship with Lincoln, with a Grounder-- it’s good for Octavia. For at least one of Clarke’s people-- Octavia is not an omega but-- Clarke needs to remember that her own happiness is not the only thing at stake here. She needs to not get emotional. She can’t be selfish, she has to consider what is best for _everyone_. 

 

“I don’t want to have a baby. And I don’t want to have _her_ baby, Monty, I don’t, I don’t, I don’t--” Clarke, to both her own and Monty’s horror, is sobbing into the fraying collar of his shirt. Monty pats her awkwardly on the back, clearly unsure what else to do. 

 

Clarke tries fasting, first. 

There’s only been one unintended pregnancy on the Ark -- Octavia-- since the Hungry Year, forty-eight years ago, when Engineering’s genius began to be outstripped by entropy and the limitations on their ability to fabricate new equipment. The steady downhill slide in the Ark’s carrying capacity first manifested as a series of cascading issues in Aggro. The resulting restrictions in diet were sufficiently severe to put an abrupt stop to all heat cycles; even after things leveled out, the new normal still required special measures to induce fertility. Further, smaller failures mean that although the Ark is now facing a declining population, natural heats were not expected to resume any time soon. 

So Clarke’s medical education had no reason to address the steps of deliberate termination. She’s pretty sure, though, that she can reverse engineer the guidelines for bringing a pregnancy to term.

 

Lexa looks so sad and concerned, when Clarke refuses lunch and then dinner. That evening, she escorts Clarke to their tent, cradles her in her arms, and checks her forehead for heat or clamminess. When Clarke says she’s fine, just not hungry, and pushes Lexa off, Lexa still insists on sending a beta servant to the cook tent for delicacies and bland food both. 

When he returns, she cozens Clarke to eat his spoils. She rewards her with kisses and caresses for each swallowed bite, so that Clarke cannot bring herself to refuse. It hurts her heart, even after what she learned last night, to see Lexa worrying. Underneath that, she also wonders what Lexa would do if she guessed that Clarke -- that her omega captive-- was trying to starve away their nascent child.

 

Lexa doesn’t insist on fucking Clarke, at least. She just holds her in her strong arms, strokes her back until she falls asleep. Even with the realization that a part of her is still fond of Lexa, the lack of sex is a relief. 

In the morning, Clarke wakes up first and initiates determinedly. She slides under the blankets and coaxes Lexa’s balls out, gently cradling them in the warm cavity of her mouth while she rubs Lexa’s clit. After Lexa comes, Clarke wipes off the semen that is smeared across her face and moves up, rocking against Lexa’s strong, firm thigh until she moans her own release. She doesn’t want Lexa’s hands on her.

For once it’s enough to satiate Lexa, who lets her dress and leave the tent without protest. 

 

Clarke has already reconsidered their bedroom habits in the cold light of her pregnancy. 

Lexa is not trying to confine her, thank goodness, but with daily sex she ensures that her scent is strong in Clarke’s nose. Clarke’s body stays well aware that Lexa remains involved in her life, that Lexa is committed to supporting this pregnancy and resulting child. 

Bruce Effect-- the way that the body of a pregnant omega can react to the presence of rival alphas, deciding that a fetus’s sire is gone and reabsorbing or ejecting the offspring to in preparation for trading up to one of those rival alphas in hopes of a sire who will stick around-- is extremely variable in the human population. It's much more uniform in certain species of rodents, and strongly suspected in lions, but that's neither here nor there.

Clarke knows her own maternal line: her grandmother had a beta as a partner, she conceived Abby out of the sperm stored in the early days of the Ark. So Grandma never spent a day of her pregnancy with the alpha who was Abby’s sire, considering that he’d died in a pressure failure almost thirty years previously, but she worked in the medical wing without a pause even during the earliest days of her pregnancy, treating alphas in addition to betas and omegas, and she still carried Abby to term. 

Having inherited Grandma’s genetics, Clarke will not end this pregnancy by sharing meals with Raven and Bellamy and sitting between them at meetings. Discussing pharmaceuticals with Monty, treating injured alphas in addition to betas and omegas-- even if Lexa didn’t make it a point to fuck Clarke every morning, and most nights, and pull her aside for the occasional afternoon encounter, Clarke would still be safe from that level of contact.

Although… Bruce Effect is variable, yes, but every omega has it to some degree. Repeated sex with an alpha other than the sire? That’s a guaranteed trigger.

 

Lexa is going to visit one of the neighboring villages. She will leave in early morning and not return until the next afternoon. She is concerned about Clarke staying behind, but-- “of course you have to take care of your people. They come first.”

Clarke lets Lexa suck marks into her neck, her breasts, her stomach and hips and thighs. She lets Lexa make her come five times, and she accepts the offer of Lexa’s scarf to wrap around her neck and keep Lexa's scent close while she's gone. She kisses Lexa goodbye in front of the entire camp. Then, after the hoofbeats have faded, she leaves to find Raven and Bellamy.

“I need an alpha to fuck me.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter contains dub-con of the survival sex variety (Clarke doesn't think she has a choice. Lexa thinks everything between them is still fine) and intent and attempts to terminate a pregnancy.


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings in end notes.

The three of them look up as one, at the muffled gasp from the entry to the tent. 

Clarke’s shirt is lost somewhere in clutter on the tent’s floor. Raven’s mouth is hot and demanding on the crook of her neck, and Bellamy’s cock is hard where it presses against her hip. Bellamy’s hands are firm, squeezing her breasts, and Raven has almost undone the waist of Clarke’s trousers. 

In the narrow gap of the half-lifted flap, Lexa’s eyes are a wide, bright green. She looks slapped, she looks stunned. Clarke is already pulling free from Bellamy and Raven, but Lexa’s mouth purses closed and she whirls away. By the time Clarke has gotten to her feet, gotten redressed, gone to chase after her, Lexa has disappeared.

 

“Heda forgot something and came back to get it, but now she’s headed out again,” the guard explains, easily, when Clarke stumbles, gasping, to the edge of the woods. “Do you want me to send a rider after her?” 

Clarke considers for a moment, but eventually she shakes her head. If Lexa hasn’t told anyone-- hasn’t instructed her people to shun Clarke, much less to punish her, then Clarke has to take the advantage of the brief breathing room offered by Lexa's trip. She needs to try and figure out what in the world is left for her next step. 

 

Bellamy looks briefly disappointed, when Clarke explains that she is going to be staying with Octavia, but he doesn’t actually protest the utter end of their prior activities. Raven looks worried, brow creased and lips trembling. 

 

“Oh you _idiot_ ,” Octavia just says, when Clarke explains what has happened. “You’d better not get my big brother killed.” But she opens her arms to hug Clarke anyways. 

Octavia grumbles some more that evening, when she has to turn Lincoln away from her tent. Lincoln sleeping at Octavia’s side would completely ruin the intended statement of neutrality that Clarke is making by bunking down with the beta she is closest to.

Lincoln looks shocked and concerned when Octavia gives him a brief rundown -- “this _branwada_ tried to lose the baby by fucking my brother and Raven, and Heda walked in on them--” but Clarke tells herself his reaction is a good sign: what happened is still a secret. She knows that Anya remained behind at the camp, and she’s glad beyond words that Lexa hasn’t sent a rider back to let her closest, most vicious lieutenant in on how Clarke has ruined everything. She can’t even imagine Anya’s reaction, her retaliation when she does find out. 

 

In the end, she hides in Octavia’s tent for the next six days. Monty comes by, eventually, and she has Octavia send him away. Raven and Bellamy don’t visit at all, but Octavia confirms that they’re still alive, and walking around without any bruises. 

Ironically, she doesn’t have any appetite for her entire period of seclusion. It’s a challenge even for Octavia to convince her to drink water. She’s not thinking clearly enough for it to be deliberate, but eventually Lincoln sniffs deeply, when he’s come by to speak with Octavia, and Clarke learns that she smells like she’s lost the pregnancy. 

It’s approximately a quarter hour after Lincoln’s departure before Lexa herself is standing at the tent flap. 

 

“Let me see her.”

Even half buried in blankets, Clarke can tell that Octavia’s stance has widened, and that her hands are curling into loose fists at her sides. She can just imagine the mulish expression on Octavia’s face, the jut of her stubborn chin. It’s ridiculous, really -- Lexa could lift Octavia out of her way if she wanted to, and Octavia does not have nearly enough combat training to stop her -- but it’s also sweet. 

“I’ve been back for four days, and I’ve left her alone that whole time. Why would I suddenly decide to do her harm now, if I’ve waited this long? You can’t be that stupid, Oktevia-- for one thing, Lincoln would never care for someone who lacks in wits, nevermind how pretty you are.”

Octavia doesn’t relax, much less move. Lexa sighs.

“The... complicating factor… is gone now, from what Lincoln said. It’s time for Clarke and I to have a little talk.”

Clarke can just barely catch a glimpse of Lexa over Octavia’s shoulder. She looks tired, she looks sad. She doesn’t look like she’s about to rip into Clarke verbally, much less beat her or rape her. Of course, appearances can be deceiving, but -- “Let her in,” Clarke says, and the rustiness of her own voice startles her. 

Octavia steps out of the way and then, when Lexa continues to glare, leaves the tent completely. 

“You stink,” Lexa announces, from the vantage point of the doorway. Clarke shrinks further into the blankets at the words. “Not just of those two alphas -- they’re barely detectable, you’ve covered them up with sour sweat and self-pity.”

Lexa strides forward, until she’s close enough to grab Clarke’s arm and pull her up to her knees. Clarke feels a flash of fear when Lexa yanks off her admittedly disgusting sleeping shirt, but then Lexa pulls open the little pack she’s carrying and out comes a wash cloth, water skin, and sliver of soap. 

Lexa keeps glaring until Clarke has wiped herself down completely, and then a clean shirt comes out of the pack, and Lexa guides it down over Clarke’s head. When Clarke sinks back, pulling the soft fabric further down to cover her bared thighs, Lexa settles on the bedroll next to her. She looks pointedly at the mostly full water skin until Clarke starts sipping from it. 

 

“You still stink,” Lexa informs her, after a minute. “It’s just not as bad.”

Clarke nods, and puts the water skin down, and locks her eyes on her fingers, which she tucks into her lap. It is completely humiliating, that this criticism from Lexa is making her want to cry. 

 

“I never planned to have children, you know,” Lexa says after another long period of silence. “I wasn’t seeking them when I mated you. I wasn’t even thinking about them as a possible consequence afterwards-- I was too caught up in the joy of your sweet mouth and the softness of your body and the way you always gave way beneath me. You’re the first omega I’ve ever been with, did you know that? In or out of heat. If I’d kept my wits together better, I might have ordered your meals stopped myself, before your scent had a chance to change.”

Clarke is finally surprised into eye-contact. Lexa raises a disdainful eyebrow at Clarke’s clear doubt. “It’s a vulnerability, Clarke, for a leader to have children. Unlike most other clans, the Trikru do not pass the position of Heda down from parent to child, so it’s not a necessary risk, either. A wise leader reacts cautiously to the thought of bringing such perfect hostages into the world.”

“I guess that makes sense,” Clarke admits, when Lexa doesn’t continue. Thanks to the water, her voice is much smoother than before. 

“You are also not exactly an ideal choice of birth mother, for my possible babies,” Lexa continues. Clarke can’t help it: she stiffens with offended dignity. Lexa smirks. 

“You’re an outsider, Clarke. You bring no kin ties and, outside of your healing, no useful skills. It’s clear that you don’t have the slightest idea of how to run one of our households. And I have known you for less than one season, but even that limited time has made it very clear that you have a problem with loyalty.”

Clarke looks away again. She wants to protest -- she’d never had a chance to actually offer Lexa her loyalty, Lexa’d just taken it as granted -- but Lexa resumes speaking before she can figure out how to say that. ”And you have a problem with impulsivity, Clarke, and with communication, and with trust. The first is somewhat forgivable in light of your youth, and the second and third are in many ways my own fault.”

Lexa’s voice is much softer now, almost caressing. “And you are stunningly beautiful, Clarke. I don’t think you realize how good you smell, not to mention your lovely lush mouth, your breasts-- even now, when you should disgust me, instead you’re a distraction.” 

It’s not at all what Clarke wants to hear from Lexa -- _you’re too hot for me to stay angry_ , really! Does Lexa think that's a compliment?-- and she can feel her _lovely, lush mouth_ forming a pout. Lexa looks amused when she continues. “You are also as cunning as a weasel, and you are always trying to think several moves ahead. You have a lot of kindness, but it’s never going to outbalance your capacity for ruthlessness. You are determined to put your people first, you are an extremely strong leader, and you make my blood sing, even now. Even after what you did.”

“I’m sorry,” Clarke finally whispers. Then she bites her lip hard enough to draw blood, wraps her fingers tight in the sheets, and looks up. “I’m sorry that I hurt you,” she clarifies, “that I made you feel betrayed. I’m sorry that I went to Raven and Bellamy, because I promise you I’d rather have not felt the need to. But I’m not sorry that I didn’t want the child, that I did whatever it took to get rid of it. I still don’t want a child, even now. If you get me pregnant again, Lexa, I’ll-- I’ll do the same thing again if I have to. If you lock me up, I swear I’ll stop eating. If you try to force feed me, I’ll throw myself into the fire, or hang myself with the sheets, or ---” Lexa’s hand covers Clarke’s mouth, stopping the flow of words. 

“Do you honestly believe I could do that to you?” Lexa looks offended beyond words. When she uncovers Clarke’s mouth, her arm doesn’t fall back to her side, it wraps around Clarke’s shoulders and tugs her close. 

Clarke shivers in Lexa’s half-embrace. “I don’t know what you’ll do,” she admits. “You said-- the way you talked about us, the omegas, bringing us into your villages-- it was like we were breeding stock. You’ve made me feel precious and cherished since the day I met you, but when you said that I realized that I wasn’t a person in your eyes, just a precious, cherished _thing_.” 

There’s a long silence. Clarke listens to her own impassioned breathing, and the camp sounds filtering through the cloth walls. Next to her, Lexa shifts, and leans over until she can kiss Clarke’s hair. 

“You can’t force a baby out of an omega, you know.” Lexa’s tone is almost conversational. “Even if I’d locked you up and force-fed you, if you were this unhappy and upset, your body would have rejected the child. The best any alpha can do is convince a taken omega that she has no better options and so she might as well settle. That works on a village-wide scale, but it’s less effective at keeping any individual omega under any individual alpha’s roof, if the omega truly does not want to be there. If you leave me, Clarke, by the laws of my own people, I can’t force you to come back. I could kill your new mates -- they’d forgive me that offense, as Heda -- but you could still refuse to return and I’d have to respect your choice.”

Clarke thinks Lexa’s words over carefully. “But you’d still force us to come with your people. You just wouldn’t force _me_ to come to _you_.”

Lexa’s voice is calm, lecturing. “I am Heda, the good of my people will always come first. Omegas are rare, and I have an obligation to secure the resource that your people represent for the Trikru. I am never going to apologize for doing what is best for my people, Clarke, although on a personal level I regret that you find it so offensive.”

Clarke shivers, and hugs her knees. “It’s what’s best for the Hundred too, I’m pretty sure. Not being breeding stock but -- we’re not going to be able to make it down here on our own, I don’t think. We need your people. I guess that means that ultimately, we have to do whatever you want.”

It’s surprising, that this capitulation on Clarke’s part leads to Lexa looking like her heart is breaking. “Clarke, that’s not -- I wish that wasn’t -- that’s not the only way of looking at things.”

Clarke shrugs. “It’s how it looks to me.”

The arm around Clarke’s shoulder tightens for a moment, and then Lexa lets her go. She rises gracefully to her feet, and she dusts her hands off on the legs of her trousers. She’s looking everywhere but at Clarke when she says, “I hope you won’t keep hiding out in here, Clarke. You don’t have to, and your people need you.” And then she’s gone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter contains the successful termination of a pregnancy and contemplation of self-harm/suicide if circumstances were to become more desperate.


	7. Chapter 7

Clarke is determined to identify any and all possible upsides to her estrangement from Lexa. 

This is one now: standing in the main clearing with Raven and Bellamy (because they seem to agree with her belief that she can’t afford to be seen seeking actual privacy with either of them), discussing their future with the Grounders. 

“From everything I’ve heard, they don’t really make war in the winter. Once the snow starts falling, Lexa is going to send them back to their villages, and I don’t think we can make it out here all on our own. We need to find a way to convince them to take us with them when they go.”

Bellamy doesn’t look particularly enthused at the suggestion, but Raven is wide-eyed in consideration. By the time they split up a half hour later, Bellamy has come around to the idea as well. 

And the upside? Neither of them wondered if Clarke was hiding something. Neither of them questioned her motivations. 

In Raven and Bellamy’s eyes, her loyalty to the Hundred and only the Hundred is currently unimpeachable. Their view on her allegiance is correct, but it would have been the same if she was still Lexa’s pet darling, and she’d only realized they were starting to hold her at remove in the contrast of their behavior after everything fell apart. Nevermind that she would have said the exact same things for the exact same reasons, if she was still sleeping in Lexa’s bed. It would have taken them three times as long to reach consensus. 

So. All the old nature sayings, they’re true. It’s an ill wind that blows no good and every cloud has a silver lining. If a tank of fish dies from an algae bloom, well, at least there’s a tiny uptick in the amount of breathable O2.

 

It’s too big of a decision for the three of them to commit to on their own, and they spread the question out among the Hundred through multiple conversations, each with only a few participants. 

If the Grounders weren’t living among them, Bellamy would have just called them together in the clearing. Clarke would have wrested the announcement away from him a few sentences in, and when Bellamy interrupted her to argue over details, Raven’s rolled eyes and sharp commentary would have herded them back on track. It’s all so predictable that Clarke can almost hear the echoes of that assembly, but it doesn’t feel comfortable having this conversation in such a public way, now. Not with the Grounders all around to overhear. 

 

Four days later, Monroe sits on the bed next to Clarke in chaperonage, trying and mostly failing to braid hair’s from a horse’s tail into a fishing line. Raven is braced against a support post and Bellamy lingers at the open tent-flap, feet outside the tent but shoulders and head pushing in. 

Harper and Monroe’s tent-- Clarke has been staying with them ever since Octavia made it clear that she’d like to be able to have one-on-one time with her alpha boyfriend, now that Clarke knew she could step outside the tent without Lexa killing her -- is on a busy pathway through the camp. In the gaps around Bellamy’s body, Clarke can see various figures ambling past. The Hundred all smile in acknowledgment at their leader's meeting and move on, but each Grounder pauses for a moment, staring curiously at their little conclave. 

“Some of them are hesitant, but no one I spoke to said no,” Bellamy starts off the report of his findings. Clarke and Raven have gathered more or less the same reactions, and Monroe is tasked with telling Anya that Clarke, Raven, and Bellamy request some time to talk with her and Lexa. 

 

“We asked for this meeting to discuss the coming winter, and what will happen when you leave. We want to know what it would take to convince you to bring us with you.”

Clarke watches the smile spread across Lexa’s face with dawning horror. That smile is surprised, delighted, calculating -- the expression of someone who has just been handed an advantage beyond her wildest expectations. It’s the smile of a mind already racing down the twisting pathways of new and unforeseen options. Another moment and it’s not a smile at all-- it’s a smirk. 

Floating _fuck_. 

 

In the rush of her efforts to convince Raven and Bellamy and the rest of the Hundred to accede to Lexa's annexation, Clarke has managed to forget that Lexa’s assumption that the Hundred’s omegas would need enticements in order to overcome their reluctance constituted their main -- their only -- bargaining point. 

With Raven framing the issue as the Hundred’s own idea, asking Lexa “how can we convince you to do this for us,” they have given up the only shred of power they ever held. Whatever compromises Lexa was probably holding in reserve? Clarke has rendered them moot. 

Clarke has all but completed Lexa’s work for her, and the smugness that accompanies the satisfaction in Lexa’s eyes-- it’s clear that Lexa has puzzled out Clarke's role in this, and that Clarke’s obvious regret as she realizes what she’s done is only giving Lexa further amusement. 

 

Clarke is pretty sure that Anya just kicked Lexa, but at least she's back to a neutral expression. “I’ll need some time to think this over,” she says, and she rises to her feet and stalks out of the tent. 

 

“Do you think she’s actually going to say no?” Bellamy’s voice is high and tight with worry at the Heda’s abrupt exit, and Clarke can’t help it: her neck slumps down until her forehead is resting on the table, and she groans into the polished wood. 

When Anya follows Lexa out a moment later, she reaches down and squeezes Clarke’s shoulder as she passes. Clarke lifts her head a few centimeters, and bangs it down again. 

 

Lexa gets her time, but Clarke isn’t sure whether she also gets an opportunity to do much thinking. 

That afternoon, seven of the Hundred’s omegas go into heat. 

Before a week has passed the number has climbed to forty-two; every single omega in the camp except for Clarke. 

 

It’s probably ridiculous, Clarke’s tendency towards statistics. But it’s hard to ignore a lifetime of training and, well -- she can't help watching carefully to see if Lexa is going to pursue any of the heat-struck omegas. Yes, Lexa said that she didn’t want a baby right now, especially not from one of the Hundred, but heat sex is delectable in its own right. Lexa could take her pleasure and then just order her partner starved for a few days, like she says she should have done to Clarke, if she wants to avoid any _complications_. 

 

Clarke doesn’t know if it's a relief or not, that Lexa stays entirely out of the mating game that’s overtaken the camp. 

 

When the last of the omegas return to normal, this is Clarke’s count: eleven of them have chosen to struggle through the the protracted, four-day delicious agony of a solo, unmated heat. That’s something that seems to surprise the Grounders, although it makes plenty of sense to Clarke. If you’re lucky enough to actually know what’s happening to you, having sex just because your biology suddenly makes all the alphas almost unbearably attractive-- it's a kind of upsetting prospect, to someone who grew up on the Ark. 

Nineteen of the omegas do consent to mate with Grounder warriors. Clarke resists the urge to grit her teeth each time she ticks another girl off on her fingers -- it still feels like capitulation -- but she’s trying to not project her own feelings onto others. Heat sex is amazing, and these omegas have every right to enjoy it with whomever they please, if that’s what they want. 

That leaves the twelve of the Hundred’s omegas who spend their heat with one of the Hundred's own alphas. 

Curiously, it’s these ones who seem to surprise the Grounders the most-- more, even, than the omegas who kept themselves secluded.

 

Lincoln struggles through a diplomatic explanation when Clarke asks _why_ it’s so shocking that some of the omegas have chosen to share heat with friends, familiar alphas who they respect and trust. 

Well. Clarke should already know that Grounders don’t see things -- see _people_ \-- the same way that the Hundred do. To Grounder eyes, apparently, the Hundred’s alphas are not in the least bit attractive as mates. 

They’re too young by Grounder standards, for one thing, and they don't have the skillset to support themselves, much less a partner and children. Lincoln say that the only way a Grounder omega would choose someone like a Hundred alpha to share her heat with is if she was already in an established, self-sustaining partnership with one or more betas -- if she needed a sperm donor, basically. 

 

Clarke’s so busy being offended on the Hundred’s alpha’s behalf that she doesn’t think to filter these developments through Lexa’s stated plans for them, doesn’t anticipate Lexa’s reaction at all. 

 

A hand wraps around Clarke’s wrist and she’s being yanked inside a door flap to stand, blinking, in the darkness of one of the Grounder’s tents. 

When her eyes adjust, she can see Lexa glaring at her. 

Lexa drops Clarke’s wrist abruptly when Clarke flinches at the sight, and Clarke brings her other hand up to rub at the white fingerprints that Lexa has left behind, even though they don’t hurt at all and are in fact already fading. Lexa looks momentarily guilty. _Good_.

“What do you want?” Clarke clips out. 

At the question, Lexa inhales sharpy and licks her upper lip, her eyes drifting over Clarke from head to toe, lingering on chest and thigh. Clarke can feel her flush spreading up from the tops of her breasts, hot on her neck, burning almost painfully in her cheekbones. She resists the urge to shift her legs together, narrows her eyes instead. 

“Hmmm…” Lexa refocuses, and now she’s frowning back. “If your omegas are going to mate with your alphas, they’re no good to me.”

Clarke sucks in an offended gasp, and Lexa hurries to clarify. 

“I want your omegas to be the center of strong Trikru households. You are all too ignorant to contribute anything beyond fertility yet, you need to be surrounded by those who can help you find your way. If your omegas are mating with your alphas, that’s weakness combining with weakness. The Trikru will not indefinitely support an ever expanding number of dependents, and that’s what we’ll get if your alphas and omegas reproduce together.”

Clarke nibbles on her bottom lip. Underneath her indignation, she has to admit that what Lexa’s saying doesn’t sound that different from the requirements for heat approval on the Ark. No one wants babies having babies, right? Metaphorically. Except that Lexa thinks that’d be ok, actually-- as long as there’s a Grounder involved, a Grounder acting as the metaphorical adult. 

Still. Lexa’s not coming from a position of concern for the individuals who’d struggle to support their own offspring. As always, it’s all about what outcome brings maximum advantage to her clan. 

With that thought, Clarke can’t really help the aggressive jut of her chin as she points out, “you and I both know heat doesn’t have to lead to children.”

Lexa’s fingers clench, and then she nods jerkily. “See to it that it doesn’t.”

 

Clarke doesn’t have to take any special effort, in the end: all but three of the omegas track Clarke down themselves in the next few days, seeking advice on how to stop a child from taking hold. The remainder all come from the omegas who spent their heats with Grounder warriors. 

Pretty soon it’s clear that only two of them are actually pregnant-- well, the reason most adult omegas release two ovas every heat -- or more, if they’ve had a lot of contact with a beta woman -- is that chromosomal abnormalities mean that nearly half of all chemical pregnancies never even make it to implantation. The Grounders are the descendants of the survivors of a nuclear apocalypse, so their failure rate is probably even higher.

 

Clarke waits for this to be the catalyst for Lexa finally taking action-- and there’s frost on the ground more mornings than not, lately-- but apparently Lexa is still “thinking over” the Hundred’s request.

Clarke does her best to stay out of Lexa’s way, and worries why it’s taking so long, what new indignities Lexa is considering.

 

Briefly, Clarke considers offering herself to Lexa, climbing back into her bed in an effort to soften the hovering blow. Ok. A better word might be -- Clarke _fantasizes_.

It’s a fantasy because Clarke cannot genuinely believe that, if she were to crawl up to Lexa on her hands and knees and nuzzle against Lexa’s thigh, Lexa would actually take Clarke’s jaw in a strong grip and force her fingers between Clarke’s lips. 

“You wanted Bellamy’s cock?” the Lexa in Clarke’s head asks, while imaginary Clarke gags and drools around the intrusion, firm fingers teasing her tongue, thrusting to the back of her throat -- “well. I’m sorry, Clarke, that I don’t have a cock of my own. I promise you, though, I am going to fuck your mouth, right now, like a slut like you deserves.” It’s ridiculous -- do Grounders even have a concept of sluttiness? 

The silliest thing is, when Clarke’s panted her way to the end, wiped her mouth and washed her hands and gotten up to air out the tent before Monroe and Harper return, she’s not actually able to picture the part where Lexa says “ok, I won’t do….” whatever horrible thing it is, that Lexa is taking such a long time pondering. Because Clarke doesn’t _know_. 

It might not even be that bad, really. Lexa is such a cypher, Clarke can only assume this is why she’s still hesitating. She should hold the total and abject surrender in reserve until the threat becomes clear. 

At least her fantasy was cathartic. Clarke can accept that she’s been struggling with some lingering guilt for going to Raven and Bellamy, but she feels purged clean of it now.


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Rewinding a bit to get Lexa's interpretation of what just went down.

Lexa can feel the tension in the camp as soon as they pass the outermost ring of guards. Every one of the Trikru’s warriors is on high alert, jumping at shadows. The source of their uneasiness is the unusual behavior of the outsiders -- who are skittish and wildeyed, and apparently traveling exclusively in groups of three or more, rather than walking down the pathways individually. 

Anya appears at Lexa’s stirrup as soon as she’s reined to a halt, arms crossed and eyes stormy. Even before her boot has touched the dirt, Anya has started herding her towards her tent-- “May I have a moment to speak with you in private, Heda?”

 

It’s not until Anya’s managed to convince the servants to stop fussing over the fire and exit that Lexa can finally let the ramrod straightness of the last two days slip out of her spine. Slumping, she wrings her hands together and looks up at Anya through teary eyelashes. “I… Anya…. My First.”

Lexa hasn’t addressed Anya by that title since the days immediately following Costia’s death. Lexa had needed to step outside of Heda, then, to let grief make her small and weak, and she feels the same need now, facing the loss of Clarke. 

Anya shifts on her feet, hesitating. “My Second,” she says, and she pauses again. Then she backhands Lexa across the face. 

 

Lexa rears back, clutching at her throbbing jaw. 

“Do you know why I did that?” Anya is raising a disapproving eyebrow. 

Gingerly, Lexa shakes her head.

With an arm wrapped around Lexa’s shoulders, Anya leads her over to sit on the edge of the bed. Anya stays standing-- looming, really. “You are upset because you caught Clarke with Bellamy and Raven,” Anya declares. “You wanted me to comfort you after Clarke’s betrayal.”

“Yes?” Lexa is thoroughly confused, now. 

Anya scowls. “My Second, did you bother to learn that was Clarke’s first heat? Did you ever realize that when Clarke went to bed with you, she did so unaware that she was blossoming?”

Grimacing at Lexa’s shocked silence, Anya sinks down until they’re sitting side by side on the bed.

“Maybe it was a mistake, leaving Clarke with you. You are Heda of the Trikru, dealing with invaders in the heart of your territory. You could hardly take off with your new omega and ride four days through the woods to install her in your mother’s house.” 

Anya pats Lexa’s hand gently, but her voice is implacable in condemnation. “Still, Lexa…. my Second, if you had half the wits attributed to you, you would have found a compromise between bringing Clarke to live in the village and forcing her into your bed.”

“Clarke never protested--” Lexa’s defensive whine cuts off when Anya’s shoulder shifts in preparation for a second smack. 

“If you’d taken Clarke to your mother’s house,” Anya growls, “she would have been corralled inside four walls for as much as a year, yes, but she also would have had a room of her own, with a door that latched from the inside. She would have had other omegas around to talk with, omegas and beta women who have known _you_ since your earliest days. That’s the point: you let a captured omega get the measure of your character slowly, and from a place of safety. You always give an omega the option of choice; you never make her feel unsafe.”

“I didn’t threaten Clarke!” 

Anya’s eyes have narrowed into slits. “You _knew_ that I told Clarke about the three hundred warriors that were under your command, hidden in the trees and preparing to kill her people. How _could you not_ realize she was a hostage to your pleasure?”

Lexs shrinks back. Anya’s words are trying to steal Clarke away from her-- _her_ Clarke -- sunlit, smiling Clarke, the Clarke who shivers and flushes and kisses Lexa first. The Clarke who had taken food from Lexa’s hand, that first night, and shown such delightful curiosity about every aspect of Lexa’s life, in the days that followed…. 

….the Clarke who kissed Lexa first as Lexa prepared to snatch away the map that would have shown Clarke the path back to her own camp. The Clarke whose people fell from the sky, whose people are desperate to learn everything they can from the Trikru, in order to survive on the ground….

 

Anya rests her hand on Lexa’s knee when Lexa’s shoulders sink, head dropping down to rest in her hands. Lexa is pressing the heels of her palms into her eyes, hard, as if that will help force back the sudden tears. 

“It’s easy to forget how young you really are, my Second, when you are my revered and respected Heda,” Anya murmurs comfortingly. “If you were a rankless warrior, you would still have several years to wait before any omega would give you a second look. And you have grown up surrounded by men and alpha women. Before Clarke, I never saw you bothering to try and play the mating games. You were so caught up in Costia... but Lexa, my Second, beta women are not the same as alphas; they’re different from omegas, too.”

Lexa laughs wetly. “Costia would have liked Clarke, yes?”

Anya squeezes Lexa’s knee. “Costia would have adored her.”

Lexa hiccups, and raises her head enough to meet Anya’s gaze. Her eyes are red and still swimming with tears, and her nose is starting to drip. 

“I don’t think that Clarke hated you.” Anya has never been good at reassurance. “I don’t think she was afraid of you, even, by the time I saw you two again. I would have stepped in if she was. She seemed to trust you, until just a few days ago -- she was happy enough that she was able to conceive. But once she realized, she didn’t want that baby.”

“No.” Lexa shakes her head. “I don’t care about the baby, Anya. I just want Clarke back. I want the last two days to have never happened.”

Anya shifts, rolling her shoulders. “She tried to refuse meals. Did you realize that was what she was doing? You convinced her to eat. So, then she went to Raven and Bellamy. You should be glad she stopped there, Lexa-- we’ve both heard stories of omegas in some far off village who did themselves a great injury to get out of similar situations.”

Lexa shivers at the thought. Clarke going to Bellamy and Raven is still better than Clarke trying to poison herself, or arranging a fall from a great height. Clarke is no longer Lexa’s, but she’s still whole, still healthy. Still alive. 

 

“Did you realize that after you walked in on them, she stopped and ran after you?”

Lexa shakes her head.

“You’d already taken off by that point,” Anya’s disapproval is clear. “She left them and she went to stay with Bellamy’s sister-- you know, Lincoln’s girl, the beta. She’s not set foot out of Oktevia’s tent since an hour after you left. If it weren't for Lincoln's reports, I couldn't tell you surely that she was still alive. Give her this time. Wait until she rejoins the life of the camp, and then see if you can make things better.”

 

Lexa means to wait. She does. But one day passes, and then two, and then three. How long is Clarke going to take?

 

The other Outsiders have relaxed. Raven even nodded at Lexa in wary acknowledgement when they saw each other at the cooking fire.

 

Lexa tries to remember the circumstances, to remember that things could be _so much worse_ , that it’s her own fault that the situation is as bad as it is-- but she can’t get the image of Clarke with Raven and Bellamy out of her mind. And every time, it’s a little bit harder to shove down the anger and betrayal. 

 

When Lincoln comes and tells her that Clarke is no longer pregnant, Lexa decides that she’s waited long enough.


	9. Chapter 9

Clarke is skittish as a mouse when she leaves Oktevia’s tent.

Clarke is skittish as a mouse, for the time it takes her to walk across perhaps half of the camp. 

Come the seventh or eighth query, though-- and the Outsiders have dogged Clarke’s heels since her first step, they seem convinced that in her absence they teetered on the edge of catastrophe, and now must have Clarke’s opinion on every issue, at once, immediately, in order to avert disaster -- she strains up into every inch of her meager height. Her hands are set on her hips, and she is glaring up at the two young alphas who have begun to avoid her condemning gaze, fidgeting and scuffing their feet on the ground. 

Clarke is talking in the low, rapid tone of one who is currently attempting persuasion but expects ultimate obedience, whether or not her listeners ever come to agree. Moments later, the alphas nod dejectedly, shake hands and walk off, already bickering over how to obey Clarke’s directive. 

Hidden in the shadows, too far away to hear, Lexa watches with a heavy heart.

 

Lexa had been so certain that Anya was right. And not just right. Complete. 

_Anya_ acknowledged the darkness which Lexa wilfully ignored. _Anya_ , clear-eyed, had surely caught the nuances of everything that Lexa had missed, everything that, in going unspoken, had been allowed to go wrong. Anya, who saw the worst of things, _must be_ infallible in her assessment. 

It was a heavy thought with a hidden gift: in learning how and where she had put things awry, Lexa gained a chance to fix them. 

And she knows that she acted too fast. 

She should have waited longer to confront Clarke, waited for Clarke to venture out on her own time-- she knew that even as she was arguing with Oktevia to let her in --but in the end it does not matter. 

Anya only saw half the story. And this-- Clarke’s twisted interpretation of Lexa’s plans for the Outsider omegas, her plans as _Heda_ \-- it’s not something that can be resolved with time. 

Clarke is different from her, different in ways that Lexa can barely fathom, much less understand. Lexa would have done whatever it took to renegotiate this thing between them. 

But the broader relationship between their two peoples? Lexa’s goals as _Heda_ , not as Clarke’s lover? Those are _not_ on the table. They’re immutable. 

 

Even knowing the futility of it, when she lays it all out for Anya Lexa tries to imagine a different path. 

Anya lets out a sound like a cinched horse-- _whoompf_ \-- and holds up a hand to halt Lexa’s rushed and tumbling words. 

“If we leave the Outsiders here, if we leave them alone in the woods, they’ll die. And you’ll have a mutiny on your hands. From these rash young warriors who will not see omegas so harmed. From your cany old warriors who are ready to rest their aching bones in the warmth of an omega’s bed. For the Outsider’s own sake, and for the sake of the strong babes they will one day bear our clan-- Heda, you have no choice. Give up this dream of Clarke. Yes, it may cost you your last chance with her, but you must bring her people into the Trikru.”

Lexa sits down heavily. She is embarrassed to realize that, once again, her eyes are wet. 

Anya looks mildly terrified when Lexa brushes at the one tear that is already started in its path down her cheek. She bolts to her feet, mumbles something about bringing Lexa some nice cool water, and flees the tent.

 

In the days that follow, Anya brings Lexa the news of Clarke and Bellamy and Raven’s conversations, the way they have begun to take a poll of the Outsiders’ opinion on joining the Trikru in the villages once true winter comes. The Outsiders are trying to be subtle, but they’re not very good at it. The Trikru are practiced at standing unnoticed, and their ears are keen.

Sudden hope fans the last flickering embers in Lexa’s chest back into a bright yellow flame. 

 

Lexa tries to wait, patiently, for the fruit of these conversations. To wait for Clarke to come to her, for Clarke to say, “I understand, now. I understand what you are doing, and why. I am here to help.”

Lexa huddles in her cold, lonely bed and she imagines their reconciliation. She imagines the whorls on the pads of Clarke’s fingertips, the giving softness of her waist. Sucking and biting on Clarke’s plump, tender lips, fiercely, near-pain the entire point: Clarke is Lexa’s again, Lexa’s to hurt and Lexa’s to heal, Lexa’s to keep. 

She can almost feel the drift of her mouth over the skin stretched across Clarke’s cheekbones, the tender hollows of Clarke’s eye-sockets, the prickle of her lashes. For once, Clarke would be the one with eyes dampened by tears: “I’m sorry we almost lost this. I’m sorry I didn’t trust you enough to let it be good, before --and I’m so glad to be back here with you.”

Lexa imagines Clarke in the village, imagines holding Clarke’s hand outside of her mother’s house, pulling her over the threshold when she hesitates in the doorway. Lexa’s mother would hold Clarke at arms length and then wrap her into an embrace, Lexa’s milk mother would laugh and smile and bustle about to fetch the extra chairs. Lexa’s sire would tease them mercilessly for their entire visit, about Clarke’s clear gaze and her bright hair, and the soppy look in Lexa’s eyes every time they fell on her. 

 

Lexa struggles to conceal her excitement when she settles down next to Anya for the meeting: Clarke is just across from her, even if Raven and Bellamy also sit to either side.

Clarke is looking away, but it is the closest they’ve been since Oktevia’s tent. If Lexa moved a handspan, her knee would be pressed against Clarke’s. If she reached across the table, she could brush Clarke’s fingers. 

Raven is the one who speaks for the three of them, her voice steady despite her apparent anxiousness, but it’s still everything Lexa has been hoping to hear. She is already beaming with joy when she sees the dismay spreading across Clarke’s face. 

Lexa’s smile freezes. 

 

Clarke isn’t bringing the Outsiders into the Trikru as a gift. She is acting defensively, protectively, hoping to forestall whatever horrors she imagines Lexa will visit on them if she does not comply. 

She still sees Lexa as monstrous. 

 

Anya nudges Lexa’s foot, when she’s stayed frozen for too long. “I need some time to think this over,” Lexa gasps out, and she stumbles to her feet, staggers out of the tent. 

 

The rest of the omegas go into heat. They smell lovely, but Lexa does not want any of them. She wants Clarke, and now she will never have her again.

 

The fact that many of the omegas mate with the Outsiders’ own alphas: that’s a concern. Anya won’t let Lexa ignore it, and Lincoln just shrugs when they ask him for his explanation. 

“They don’t care about the same things we do, Heda. Their lives were different, where they came from, and it was different traits that made for a good mate.”

Anya’s eyes are narrowed, sharp. “You can’t let them continue like this, Heda.”

Lexa shakes her head. “No, I know. They must be forced to adopt our ways and forget their own. Anything else courts disaster.”

Lincoln looks sad. Poor, lucky Lincoln, who can mourn the cost of decisions without ever having to feel the pressure of making them. “How do you do that, Heda?”

Lexa shrugs. “Split them up. Keep them from each other. Treat them as a captured enemy, force them to lean on us, to rely on us, to become one with us in order to survive.”

Anya nods sharply. “I will begin planning, Heda. We should select the villages we are sending them to, first, and make everything ready ahead of their arrival.”

“No.” Lexa bites her lip. “Give me just a little bit more time.”


	10. Chapter 10

Clarke drifts to awareness slowly, and then jerks into alertness as soon as her eyes are fully open. Something is different. Something is _wrong_. 

Considering how well-rested she feels, and the way that Harper and Monroe are also stirring in their bedrolls, the tent is much, much too dark and quiet.

This near to sunrise, there should be more light filtering through the fabric of the tent-- even heavy cloud cover cannot explain this dimness. And there should be more and louder noises: the clatter and murmur of others, also wakening, intermixed with sounds from the further-off woods.

Another oddness: the air against her cheeks feels almost warm, not the biting cold that it’s been for the last few weeks. Her fingers and toes flex easily, they’re not aching and stiff. Clarke hasn’t been this close to truly comfortable since she last slept in Lexa’s bed.

 

The dim coziness inside the tent only makes the contrast that much more shocking when Clarke, still wrapped in her blankets, pokes her head beyond the tent flap. Outside is blinding white and freezing cold -- literally. Overnight, it has started to snow.

  


***

  


Lexa did not expect to be suddenly pulled into the hidden gap between two tents. 

She is _Heda_ , not even Anya would dare to touch her so roughly. Not when Lexa was completely unaware.

She reaches for the knife at her belt, automatic, but her heart does not skip a beat. Lexa is not some soft and vulnerable thing, always wary and frightened-- and this is not a threat. It’s Clarke. 

 

Clarke, eyes blazing, mouth parted and cheeks red with passion and cold. There are snowflakes settling on her hair, white against the gold….snowflakes on her hair because there’s nothing covering her head, neitehr hood nor hat. In fact, Clarke is not wearing the cloak Lexa gave her at all: just an Outsider-style jacket, thin, tight, and insufficient. 

When Lexa looks down, already frowning with disapproval, Clarke’s heavy boots are rough and dark with water stains. The melting snow is not beading on the surface, it is soaking straight through -- no one has treated the leather with oil and beeswax.

Lexa tries to stop herself from picturing Clarke’s pretty pink toes inside the icy, sodden leather. Clarke’s toes clenched tight and flexing for what little warmth they can manage, turned waxy-white by contact with cold, water-logged socks -- Lexa hopes that Clarke is at least wearing one of the woolen pairs she’d given her, back when Clarke first arrived at the old camp. 

 

Lexa has only heard of frostbite during the cruelest days of winter. 

It comes when life is desperate and the air is so cold that it hurts to breathe, when warriors crouch in the snow awaiting the approach of bandits who have run out of food long before spring and fallen to raiding to survive. Hunters, in a hungry year-- they might lose a finger or toe while stalking half-starved deer for five days through the woods, when they’ll endure whatever it takes to bring meat back to the empty bellies in their village. 

But no one gets frostbite this early in the season, Lexa is sure. And never with a tent and a fire so close to hand. None of the Trikru, at least. 

None of the Trikru, who know how to dress for the weather. 

Past the age of six, every child knows how to care for his or her footwear, and Lexa has never in her life met a warrior or a hunter who did not, come cold weather, carry at least two extra pairs of dry socks. She is certain that the Outsiders do not follow this sensible precaution. 

 

In front of Lexa, blocking the path out of the alcove, Clarke kicks loose a spray of white and inhales, sharply, through her nose. 

“What are you waiting for?” Clarke whisper-shouts, once she’s sure of Lexa’s attention. Her arm darts forward, as if she is going to shove at Lexa’s shoulder, but then it still so that she is just barely brushing the wool of Lexa’s cloak. 

Lexa is not sure if she is just imagining the feeling, through all her layers of cloth, of the slight pressure from Clarke’s fingertips. 

“I don’t understand what you’re asking, Clarke.”

Clarke turns, stepping sideways so that the path out is clear. The hand on Lexa’s shoulder has dropped and Clarke brings it to her waist, crosses it with her other one, low, as if she were clutching her stomach. Her shoulders shrink.

“You have everything you want, Lexa.” Clarke’s voice is low, defeated. “I convinced the Hundred to go with you. Convinced them, even, that if you took us to the villages, you’d be doing us a _favor_.” 

Clarke looks up, now, straight into Lexa’s eyes. “The first snow has fallen -- why are we still in this camp?” Her shoulders have risen, high and tight with ferocious, useless pride. 

Clarke, Lexa has begun to realize, would walk to her own execution with her eyes dry because all of her tears would have been burned out by her hatred for her captors. Clarke is someone who does not wallow long in vulnerability or sadness before she transforms those feelings into action and anger. 

“You could have all of us omegas locked up already, waiting to be bred. That’s what you want, isn’t it? That’s what you’re planning! So why are we still here, still free?” 

 

When Lexa stays silent, Clarke turns and spits into the snow near Lexa’s feet. Beneath her jacket, Clarke’s chest is moving up and down rapidly, near to panting.

Lexa struggles to not react, to breathe slowly, in and out. She can smell: the wet wool from her cloak, the spice of her own dried sweat. Clarke’s omega sweetness is almost but not completely covered by the dankness of her own badly-washed-and-dried garments. There’s the smell of Clarke’s hair, too, and the herb she chewed after she cleaned her teeth -- Lexa struggles to ignore the melange that comes off Clarke, breathes in again. 

Resiny odors of fresh chopped wood, smoke from the fires. The good, stomach-grumbling scents of breakfast stew and hard-baked-cakes to dip it up with. And laced under it all, the clean, sharp brightness of still falling snow.

  


***

  


It is so very, very Lexa that Clarke must hop her way into new socks and boots, and peel off her damp jacket, wrap herself in an offered cloak, let Lexa shove a still hot hard-cake into her hand, before Lexa will consent to answer her. 

 

Lexa leads them off a little ways into the woods for privacy, rather than into a tent, and Clarke isn’t sure what that means, if it signifies anything. Maybe Lexa can’t stand being alone in enclosed spaces with Clarke anymore.

 

They are only a few minutes into walking, can still hear the thump of axes, felling firewood, when Lexa suddenly reaches out and pulls Clarke’s hood up over her head. Some of the tension leaves Lexa’s body immediately, even before her arm drops back down to swing at her side. 

Clarke coughs, choking on crumbs, and almost drops the hard-cake that she’d been sucking and nibbling at as they walked. 

“You should keep your hair dry and your head warm in the winter, Clarke. You have to remember to wear a hat or a hood, when it’s snowing like this,” and Lexa pauses long enough to hold a snow covered branch out of the way so that it won’t hit Clarke in the face. 

 

The sounds of camp-life have faded before Lexa finally speak again. Clarke is stomping with each step, resentful of her warm toes and the way the hood of the cloak blocks her view to the sides. She has never doubted Lexa’s ability to take care of her -- but that’s not the same as Lexa _caring for_ her. 

Lexa finally stops walking, and waits for Clarke to notice and do the same. Clarke doesn’t know why Lexa selected this spot, it looks just like the rest of the woods. 

 

“When Anya brought you to me and begged me to spare the lives of your people, she noted how many of you were omegas, and how few were betas. Was it like this in your home in the sky, too?”

Clarke startles at the abrupt question, and then nods. After a moment’s further thought, she shakes her head and adds, “Actually, we have _more_ betas among the Hundred than there would have been in general population. We are only-children on the Ark, almost always-- it was extremely uncommon to have a sibling -- and betas were rarely first borns on old Earth.” 

She can’t help the way her voice turns lecturing, straight from a biology text: “It takes sustained exposure to close-in-age alphas and omegas for an adolescent to develop a beta’s infertility. Back in evolutionary history, betas passed on their genes by helping raise nieces and nephews to adulthood, so they usually won’t appear unless there is one or two already-presented alpha or omega siblings still living in the family home. Because of our one-heat policy, pretty much the only place with conditions that will lead to beta presentation is the Sky Box.”

Lexa files away that word -- Sky Box -- to ask about later, and ignores the unknown _sy-ents_ terms completely, although the fact that betas tend to be scattered in families, always with a few alpha/omega siblings preceding them in the birth order, is certainly true. 

Instead, she focuses on what seems to be the meat of Clarkes’ words. “So you are saying that almost every one among your people grows up to be an alpha or an omega. You are saying that before you fell, you expected to only ever bear a single child.”

Clarke _hmms_ assent and absently adds-- “we had very few alpha women, also -- because there were no alpha women among the population that founded the Ark. It _is_ a recessive trait, though, so girls like do Raven pop up occasionally.”

Clarke’s teeth worry at her lower lip. “What I meant to say is. On the Ark. There’s almost no distinction between _being_ a _girl_ and _becoming_ an _omega_. Just like how almost all of our boys become alphas.” She glances at Lexa, momentarily distracted. “I think that alpha women are much more common here on the ground than they were on Old Earth, too, it’s not just that you’re more common here than on the Ark. I wonder why that is.”

Lexa shrugs, halfway between irritation and amusement at the digression. “I’ve heard that when the Old World ended, Alpha women were the least likely to sicken and die.”

Clarke’s eyes brighten, curious, and she opens her mouth, but Lexa holds up a hand to forestall any questions.

“It is different among my people.” She pauses, double checking her figures before speaking again. “Among my people… if we had ten double handfuls of youths, a _hundred_ , as you would say--” and here they share a brief smile --”I have never counted, but… forty... forty-one or forty-two would be alpha men. Six… seven would be beta men. Nine or ten for alpha women, and eleven or twelve for beta women.”

Clarke’s eyes focus on nothing as she calculates quickly. “That leaves only between thirty-three and twenty-nine left as omega women.”

Lexa considers. “Let us say thirty-one omega women. It varies slightly, depending on the crops and the hunting, so that some villages have more omegas and others tend more towards betas.”

Clarke is still staring into space, her lips half-tracing silent words, finger tracing figures in the air. “You have about one-hundred-and-sixty-four _per-sent_ as many alphas as omegas. I mean, if you matched each alpha to an omega, a little more than a third of the alphas would still be left over.”

“Yes,” Lexa confirms. 

It is slightly more complicated -- alpha men are the most likely to die young, and omegas are only slightly less long lived than beta women -- but an alpha can still sire children long after an omega of the same age has stopped going into heat, so really how should older omegas count in these calculations? -- but she is still imagining the differences of living in a world where every alpha who wants to court an omega has a chance of finding one who would welcome the attention, and she wants to wait and see if Clarke’s imagination can encompass the reverse.

 

After a minute, Clarke murmurs, “your omegas don’t have much of a choice, do they. If too many decided to have few or no children, your population would die out.”

Lexa shrugs. “No one makes an omega become a mother, but… I have never met one who wasn’t, either. And…” she counts on her own fingers this time, going through her mother’s pregnancies and which of her older siblings are still alive. 

“About half of the babies who come out of the womb never make it to adulthood. My mother bore... nineteen children in twelve pregnancies; I am the youngest of all. Four? Five. Five of my older sisters and brothers were gone before they were a year old, and another four died before they reached the age when it would be clear whether or not they would be betas or alphas and omegas.”

Lexa scuffs her toe into the snow, keeping track as she lists them off. “My third-oldest sister had a scratch on her hand that went bad. At first it looked like she might only lose the arm, but then the place where they had cut the arm off started stinking and swelling, too, and the healer dosed her to sleep before the infection reached her heart. 

Clarke looks nauseous, and Lexa waits until Clarke has swallowed several times before she continues. “One of my brothers fell out of a tree and broke his neck... the middle set of twins, both of them caught the winter sickness, although they did it two years apart. They coughed and choked and sweated and didn’t make it to springtime. We had to wait for the ground to thaw before we buried them,” she adds. “It was before I became a Second, and I remember the humps of their bodies under the snow.”

Clarke’s mouth is soft and she is blinking back tears. She shuffles closer to Lexa, wraps an arm around her shoulders. 

Lexa leans into the embrace, but she’s not sure what prompts it. Death is a natural part of life, especially for children. It’s why you wait until the first year is over before you give them their own names, before you let yourself get attached. 

After a minute, when Clarke starts to shift, Lexa continues her litany: “My oldest brother slipped under the ice and drowned, too, but he was an adult. He had even mated with an omega, and conceived a child, although she did something like what you planned with Raven and Bellamy. Because of that, I have no nieces or nephews to remember Tobe by.” 

Clarke pulls away slightly, and Lexa hurries to continue. “Anyway, I have eight living siblings out of a possible eighteen, and my mother has nine surviving children.” She considers. “Unless someone has died in these past few months, but I think that they would have sent word.”

 

Clarke is counting on her fingers again, but she has relaxed enough that she is once again pressed snugly into Lexa’s side. “With close to fifty _per-sent_ childhood mortality, and comprising slightly less than a third of the population, your omegas have to bear an average six point something children just to meet replacement rate.”

Lexa strokes a finger along the inside of Clarke’s palm, curious over the new word, and Clarke turns to her, half-smiling. “Replacement rate is how many children each omega has to have, on average, just to stop your people from shrinking. There were too many of us for the Ark to comfortably support, so we deliberately stayed below it-- better to shrink the population through a falling birth rate than by culling those already alive.” Clarke shivers. “Although honestly, we did that too.”

Lexa refuses to get caught up in examining this detail of Clarke’s people’s lost way of life. She is following a path with this conversation, and she needs to proceed on towards her planned destination. 

 

“I don’t want the Trikru to just _not-shrink_. There is so much land still lying fallow, and if we can’t claim and hold it, others will. We’d end up surrounded by clans that have become bigger and stronger, and in comparison to them we would be weak. It’s my job as Heda to protect my people-- and the best way to prevent an attack is to first put yourself beyond any possibility of defeat.”

Clarke laughs, low. “Sun-soo, the art of war,” she mumbles, half under her breath, “it’s astonishing, what has and hasn’t survived down here…” but when Lexa looks at her curiously she doesn’t expand on the statement. 

Lexa moves her hands until they are loosely cupping both of Clarke’s upturned ones. “Everything I’ve told you about life among my people… this is why it doesn’t feel like a choice to me. Now that I know you _Hundred_ omegas are here, I can’t leave you to live or die on your own. I have to claim you for the Trikru, even though I know it is going to cost me a chance with _you_ , Clarke. I have to ignore my own heart because it is the right thing to do as Heda.”

 

Clarke is very still, but she hasn’t moved away from Lexa. Her hands turn over, so that she can clasp Lexa’s in return, and her head dips until her mouth is pressed against Lexa’s shoulder. 

Her voice is muffled by the cloth when she asks, “tell me, Lexa, are there any warriors who are omegas, among your Trikru?”

Lexa worries her lip, thinking hard. She doesn’t understand why Clarke is curious about this, but she doesn’t need to -- the answer to this question matters to Clarke, and right now Clarke is still consenting to stand next to her, so close that Lexa can feel the rise and fall of her chest as she breathes. 

 

“No,” Lexa admits, tentative, hoping she won’t regret the honesty. “I have never heard of an omega warrior.”

Clarke nods, and she seems disappointed. “Could an omega _choose to become_ a warrior if she wanted to, though?”

 

Lexa tries to imagine it. “If an omega was a warrior… they would be taken by the enemy in their first battle. They would be part of the battle spoils. I can’t imagine any warrior agreeing to train an omega as a Second, but I also can’t imagine any omega asking them to.”

Clarke buries her whole face in Lexa’s cloak. Lexa can feel Clarke’s stiffness, her increasing tension.

 

“Costia, my -- I knew a beta woman once, a beta woman that became a warrior. It's not common, but Costia wanted it, and she was very stubborn.” 

“What happened to her?”

Lexa keeps her voice very calm. “She was captured by the Azgeda, patrolling the icy plains to the west. She died.”

Clarke's hands tighten around Lexa's. “She was someone who mattered to you, wasn't she. Someone who mattered very much.”

Lexa can hear the raspiness in her own voice as she answers. “I knew Costia back when she only played at fighting, unsure whether she would grow up to be omega or beta. I think that even back then, I-- I think I knew all along that she would be my partner in life. I just never thought that hers could end so soon.”

 

Somewhere nearby, a tree branch creaks and snaps and crashes to the ground under the weight of accumulated snow. Clarke jumps like a rabbit at the sudden noises.

 

“The Azgeda knew that I cared for Costia,” Lexa whispers. “They captured her and they tortured her, for the pain they knew it would cause me and the secrets she would not give them. They tortured her, and then they sent me back her head.”

Clarke is trembling, and Lexa lets go of her hands. She isn't sure if she should step away from Clarke or wrap Clarke in her arms. 

 

“Costia would have liked you very much,” she finally settles on, patting awkwardly at Clarke’s back. “She was more easy with talking and with feelings than I am… things wouldn't have gotten so bad between us, if Costia was here too.”

Clarke has begun to still again. It's only going to make things worse to say it, but Lexa seems to have no control over the words leaving her mouth-- “she'd have begged you to keep the baby, though. Costia liked babies. I think…” Lexa’s voice slows in a new realization. “Costia would have been just as happy if she’d become an omega instead of a beta, even if she couldn't fight, because that would have meant she could have as many babies as she liked.” 

Clarke doesn’t respond, and Lexa cannot stop herself from rambling further. “If Costia had survived Azgeda, she wouldn't have let things get so bad between us. You’d never have needed to go to Bellamy and Raven if she were still here… but she'd also have sulked at you every time you fasted after a heat. Put mice in your boots and pinecones in your bed, even, at least until I convinced her to respect your choices and stop.”

Clarke laughs wetly. “I think I would have liked Costia back, very much, too.”

 

Around them, the snow keeps falling. It’s sticking now, on Clarke’s shoulders and the top of her hood, turning the fabric white. 

 

Lexa is still stuck on the idea of a world where Costia grew up to be omega and not beta. “If Costia had become an omega, I think she’d still have learned to hunt.” 

Clarke pulls back far enough to look up at Lexa. “Hunting is a thing that omegas can do?”

“Yes,” Lexa reassures readily. “It’s not common, but there are some who prefer to work in the woods rather than the house or the sheds or the gardens.” 

She is thinking on omegas again, all of the women she has ever met who don’t match the image she expects when she hears the word. “There is an omega who is a trader, too, in one of the villages to the north -- she is partner to two beta women, and they raise the children and nurse the babes while she is gone caravan with her sire and her brothers.”

Clarke seems to be thinking this over, struggling to put her ideas into words. “Omegas… among you Trikru, omegas are still people.”

 

Lexa pulls away far enough that she can stare at Clarke. “Of course omegas are people! Omegas, beta men, alpha women -- we’re all different, but that doesn’t make us any _less_.”

Clarke scrunches her nose. “On the Ark everyone was different, but they were different as _individuals_. It wasn’t your sex that mattered, or your gender. If you were capable of a job, than you could do it.” 

Lexa stays silent. She does not completely understand what Clarke is saying -- is this about the fact that omegas cannot be warriors? Doesn’t the truth, that the enemy would place the highest priority on capturing any omega on a battleground, mean that omegas are therefore not capable of effectively waging war? 

 

Not saying anything must be the right choice, because after a minute Clarke shifts close again. This time, she presses her face into the bare skin of Lexa’s neck. Her breath is warm and humid, and when Clarke moves her mouth slightly, it feels like a kiss. 

Very careful, Lexa moves her arms, and then she is embracing Clarke. Clarke only nuzzles closer, and Lexa strokes her hands down along the solid plain of Clarke’s back. 

 

“Ok. This is your chance,” Clarke whispers after a long minute. “This is your chance to win me back. Sell me on your plan, Lexa. Tell me what you’re going to do to my people, and convince me that it’s not too bad.”

Lexa kisses Clarke’s forehead, and then she makes her arms loosen again, takes a step back. 

 

“Well. First of all, and I don’t think you’re going to like this, Clarke… but I think we need to split your people up, when we send them to the villages.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There's some wrapping up loose ends after this, and possibly an epilogue that rivals Rowling in cozily suffocating any further speculation or chance of angst, but basically that's the climax and the resolution, folks! They go for a walk in the woods. They talk, they hug, and they finally start to understand each other, with an emphasis on Clarke finally starting to change her worldview and adapt to the exigencies of life on the ground.
> 
> If you'd like to complain about how this fic has no actual plot.... you're right. It's true. I don't know what to say for myself except that whenever I recommend one of my favorite books to someone else, I tend to hear "it was interesting but nothing actually _happened_ ", so I'm going to take that criticism as a compliment.
> 
> If you'd like to yell about how Clarke is awful and through her awfulness does not _deserve_ Lexa, or the inverse? That is completely within your rights, but I (obviously, as the author of the story) don't think you're right.
> 
> And. After reading those comments on other chapters and going back and confirming that various world-building details did make it out of my imagination and onto the page, I have been snidely mentally responding that you might want to work on your reading comprehension skills. 
> 
> Or you know, you could just quit the story, if this setting and this take on the characters doesn't do it for you! And please, PSA, on other people's fics-- think twice before you comment like that!!! Because I have seen some excellent authors burned out of fandom before, and we all lose out when that happens. This is not like tv where it costs buckets of money to produce and there's a high, and gendered/classed/raced/etc, barrier to entry. If you don't like it, you can go read something else, or write something yourself. 
> 
> (If you think this fic is imperial-colonialist/othering/pro-gender essentialism rather than simply depicting its effects/ otherwise irresponsible, or if you'd like to talk about equality-vs-difference feminism and the existence of A/B/O as a trope... please DO get in touch. I would appreciate the chance to work through these issues/ideas in more depth so that I can do better in the future).
> 
> If you'd like to hear more about the specific demographics (and I don't know if anyone would, but the genesis of a lot of the rules of the world was a/b/o demographic tables. Multiple ones, for each stage of imagined history, because you use the same equation on different conditions and get different results) I have a tumblr, username sesquip-edality, and I'm happy to do the asks-thing. Really-- just talk to me about world-building in general. Please!


	11. Chapter 11

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> the denouement.

They walk out of the trees hand in hand.

 

Clarke talks to Bellamy and Raven herself. Alone. In a tent. 

It’s something halfway between funny and sad, the way they tense-up when she closes the flap and they realize that there is no one else waiting with her, no one present to provide _supervision_.

Telling them everything-- revealing that the Trikru are specifically interested in the reproductive potential of the Hundred’s omegas, and will take their alphas and betas only because it’s not worth the bother of fighting over it -- Clarke has concluded that she still can’t risk sharing that aspect of things.

It will have to stay Clarke and Lexa’s little secret.

 

Well. The Trikru warriors surely understood that slaughtering every alpha and beta member of the Hundred was on the table as a plan B, but _Lexa_ is the only repository for Clarke’s reaction to the implications of that proposed genocide.

 _Lexa_ is the one to whom Clarke has explained her terror at the belief that being an omega meant Lexa viewed her as _chattel_. Lexa is the one who must realize, now, that Clarke felt so _violated_ by that prospect, she couldn’t even bring herself to _knuckle up_ and endure Lexa’s attentions, carry Lexa’s baby, back when she was convinced that ending her pregnancy posed a great risk to the safety of her people.

Lexa is the _sole witness_ to the depths of Clarke’s capacity for selfishness, and in order to protect the Hundred she can never confess to anyone else. She will never have a chance for absolution. 

It’s only halfway a relief, the fact that they’re probably never going to talk about any of this again, now that they’ve sorted out all their misunderstandings. 

Clarke shoves the lingering pain and guilt, and the free-fall, floating loneliness of that prospective silence, to the very back of her mind. 

She is preparing to execute an extremely delicate ideological maneuver, and she can’t spend her focus on self-pity. 

 

These are the steps: 

“Lexa has agreed to take us in. But. A single Trikru village isn’t big enough to support all of us, for the time it will take for us to become contributing members to their society.”

Shrugs from Bellamy and Raven. “They’re going to split us up, then?” The two exchange glances, confused by the emphasis Clarke is placing on this revelation. 

“Yes. And it’s not just to spread our maintenance out -- they think we’ll learn their ways better, faster, if we’re not surrounded by each other.”

Bellamy frowns at that, and Raven’s lovely arching eyebrows knit together delicately. This is the dangerous part, and Clarke has considered just saying silent, but -- she’s fairly certain it’s better to prime the Hundred in advance, to have them enter into this arrangement understanding that assimilation is half the point.

If she abstains now... eventually, the Hundred will still start to realize what is happening. And all it takes is one person who is not very impressive by Trikru standards, one person who thinks his or her own social position would have been so much better, if the Hundred were instead struggling and dying on their own in the woods, that he or she can’t see the value of everything they’ve gained by joining the Trikru. 

_Murphy_ is a good candidate. Or-- she adores Monty without reservation, but there’s a lot of lurking entitlement in his friend Jasper. Clarke can’t lie to herself: there are already those among the Hundred who have a habit of sitting around whining over their lot in life, rather than getting up and putting in the work.

 

She misses Wells, suddenly and with a ferocity that almost takes her breath away. 

Wells was surely the best, the _most good_ person this world could ever create.

Giving into grief, though-- Clarke can’t afford to do that. Not now, maybe not ever. It’s not like mourning Wells will bring him back. 

Her best friend since childhood is nothing but moldering flesh and bone, now, and -- and Clarke can just see Jasper responding to feelings of inadequacy with some kind of Ark-centric-chauvinism. 

She can vividly picture Murphy, confiding and sidling, persuading others who wouldn’t quite realize what he was doing. Murphy grasping for the power that would come from being the one who turned the Hundred against the Trikru. 

Fragile masculine egos undoing all of Clarke’s hard work, putting everyone’s lives in danger again, months or even years from now. 

It’s too great a risk. She has to try to inoculate the Hundred against that type of discourse. 

 

Bellamy is so reactive that Clarke expects him to be instantly angry at the idea of the Trikru taking deliberate action to change the Hundred. It surprises her a lot, then, when instead of exploding he gets thoughtful, quiet. 

“We already agree that we need to learn all this practical stuff from the Grounders. Even if you added up everything we can collectively remember from Earth Skills, it’d be a drop in a-- a drop in a _yotta_ litre, compared to what the Grounders could teach us if we’re willing to learn.”

Raven snickers at that completely overblown metaphor, and even Clarke’s lips quirk up for a moment. 

“I think you might be exaggerating, Belllamy,” Raven still has the laugh in her voice. “I’m not sure there’s that much specific knowledge even in this whole wide world -- or that much liquid water, with all this glaciation. Surely a drop in a hectolitre is sufficient to make your point?”

Bellamy laughs back, his mouth wide, and runs a hand through his hair. “Let’s call it a kilolitre and leave it at that.” 

His fingers drum on his knee, and then Bellamy continues, “it’s not just the technical skills, though. The Grounders have their own… worldview, their own values and morality. They’re a new civilization, really,” here he looks briefly excited, “and if we join them... eventually, we’ll stop being Arkers. We might not turn into Grounders overnight, but… give us enough time and we’ll adopt their beliefs. We’ll lose everything that makes us _who we are_ in that process of becoming something new.”

Clarke freezes, starts to open her mouth, but Bellamy is still speaking. 

“And. Well. I don’t think that’d be such a bad thing.”

Raven gapes at him, and even Clarke is surprised. He fidgets under their scrutiny, then glares defiantly. 

“I don’t think the Grounders would have executed my mom-- or your dad, Clarke. I don’t think the _Grounders_ are in the habit of locking teenagers up and throwing away the key, killing time until it’s legal to float’em, just because some dumb kid dared to stick one toe over the line.”

Clarke decides that silence is the best response. 

 

She’s pretty sure the Trikru would have still punished the theft of food that resulted in Octavia’s conception. 

Maybe the tech who stole rations to trade for sex with Aurora Blake would have only had to endure a beating, or the loss of his job-- maybe he’d have kept his life. Bellamy’s mother might have gotten away with nothing beyond social censure, but Clarke can’t really imagine that their infractions could go completely unmarked. The Trikru aren’t devoid of laws and hierarchy, of crime and punishment. 

But Bellamy is correct, Clarke is pretty sure, when he conjectures that the Trikru would never have contemplated killing a fifteen year old Octavia for the crime of continuing to exist.

And Clarke’s dad. She’d _really_ rather not even think about him, because Clarke is realizing that now, with the burden of her own incendiary knowledge, she has a pretty different perspective then she did as a naive seventeen year old. And her new position is nearly identical to the one held by her mother and Marcus Kane. She’d have turned her dad in too, she’s pretty sure, if she was faced with that decision again, even knowing that it could cost him his life. But if something similar happened on the ground-- maybe Lexa would exile her own version of Jake, rather than executing him. The Trikru have that option, expulsion from the group. For them, with all this breathable air, exile is not identical to capital punishment. Whatever option she chose, though, Clarke is sure that Lexa wouldn’t allow someone who betrayed official secrets to remain within the community. 

But-- the Trikru’s treatment of youthful indiscretions.The kind of thing that got most of the Hundred locked up and labeled delinquent? Lexa’s people are definitely very different there-- just based on the stories she’s heard warriors tell around the fires at night, she knows that they are much more forgiving of, place much more value in, their children than anyone could have contemplated doing on the Ark.

 

Clarke looks at Raven, waiting for her response. Now that Clarke thinks about it, Bellamy has no cause for fondness towards the Ark’s way of doing things, but Raven -- Raven fit into society just fine, before she gave it all up to come down to earth. 

Raven’s frown is already smoothing out, though, and then she’s nodding. “You know, everyone on the Ark always talked about how we were the last heirs of Old Earth, the-- the only remaining thread linking the future to humanity’s past. You should have heard the Cult of the Last Tree when they met down in Mecha Rec. They were so sanctimonious and self-praising it would make your skin itch.”

Clarke remembers Vera Kane opining at special occasion family dinners, and winces with sympathy.

Raven continues, “but I think… I think that space changed us. The three of us here, we’re all fourth generation. Our parents, our grandparents, they were all born and lived and will die on the Ark. We talk about carrying over Old Earth culture, keeping humanity alive, but…. What we created up in space, I’m not sure how much of it is worth preserving.”

Raven crosses her arms and looks between Bellamy and Clarke almost defiantly. “Maybe the Grounders are the real heirs of Old Earth. Not us.”

Clarke zones out as Bellamy responds. Philosophical conversations like this are something she just can’t bring herself to care about -- does it really matter whether the Ark way or the Trikru way is better by some external ethical standard? The Hundred have no choice but to join with the Trikru if they want to survive. Given that circumstance, comparative morality has about as much use-value as interior helmet-lights on a solo spacewalk. 

 

In the end, they agree that Bellamy and Raven should be the ones to spread the word. 

Clarke is going to sleep in Lexa’s tent come nightfall, and for every night that follows. If any taint ever attaches to her for that, they need to make sure it won’t infect the whole concept of assimilation. “We’ve got to frame things so that everyone knows you’re an Esther,” Bellamy says, “not some Jezebel leading us to Baal and Asherah,” and then he blushes when they stare at him. “Defenestration,” he can’t help adding a moment later, though, as if despite himself. “Can you believe that Old Earth invented an actual word for throwing someone out a window?” 

Clarke shakes her head in disbelief and utter incomprehension, and Raven kicks at Bellamy’s foot. “Are you asking me what I can’t believe? It’s how you could be raised on the Ark and still grow up to be such a useless-floating-historical-sciences nerd.”

 

The first snowfall melts and turns into mud. Riders gallop off from the camp every day, and others come back, dirty and tired, reciting their return messages and staggering off for a meal and a nap. Arranging accommodations for eighty-four people is not something that can happen overnight. 

Anya complains constantly about the mess, except that Clarke is fairly sure whatever she’s complaining about is _not_ the mud itself, because Anya was certainly not afraid of dirt when she smeared it all over the two of them for camouflage, back when she was taking Clarke to Lexa. “We could have arranged all of this earlier,” Anya finally mutters, half under her breath, and yes, _that’s_ the actual source of her irritation. 

Lexa twitches and then looks off into the distance. She’s clearly decided that pretend-deafness is the better part of valor when it come to Anya’s criticisms. Clarke covers her mouth to hide her smile at the whole interaction. The way that Anya can act the part of the perfect warrior, and still find every opportunity to needle Lexa, is an utter delight to watch. 

 

Even as the messengers gallop about, the entire camp is consumed in some giant nightmare version of the group-choosing part of a collaborative class project. 

Clarke and Lexa have agreed that six is the maximum number of the Hundred who will go to any single village, and that the Hundred will be able to sort themselves out into units independently. Now everyone is figuring out who they want to live with, making groups and breaking up, and generally descending into the most ridiculous, petty dramas. 

Lexa, who had only acceded to self-determination in this aspect when Clarke insisted, tends to shoot Clarke low, amused looks whenever the commotion actually devolves into shouting or crying. Clarke grits her teeth and refuses to regret the turbulent process. It’s important to give the Hundred some feeling of ownership, of agency, in all of this. And leaving the decision up to them offers the double benefit of ensuring that if anyone ends up hating those they land with by the time the snow melts for good, they’ll have no one to blame but themselves. 

It doesn’t help at all that Lexa’s warriors are full participants, trying to convince the Hundred -- the omegas, really, or the omegas and those alphas or betas who are such good friends with an omega that it can be assumed they’ll stick together, although no one but Clarke seems to notice the importance of sex-category in all of this-- to come with _them_ to _their_ village. 

 

It surprises Clarke, when Lexa asks Clarke herself. Clarke went to bed first -- she still hates the cold -- and she is almost asleep when Lexa crawls in beside her. 

Lexa doesn’t sprawl down and immediately press herself against Clarke’s back, wrap an arm around Clarke’s stomach, the way she usually would. She stays sitting up, and Clarke rolls over to grumble about the frigid air that has begun to seep under the gap in the covers. 

The dim red light coming off the coals in the brazier casts sooty eyelash-shadows across Lexa’s cheekbones. Her eyes themselves appear as black and deep and fathomless as a night without stars.

When Clarke reaches out towards her, Lexa leans back and away from the touch. 

“I wanted to ask you…” Lexa bites her lip. “I would like to invite you to come and live in the village where I grew up. To stay under my mother’s roof, and let her teach you some of our ways.”

Clarke is surprised into silence. She hadn’t realized that she herself would be part of the Hundred’s redistribution -- she thought that she had given herself up to Lexa’s keeping when they reconciled in the woods, and that was that. She is prepared to go wherever it is that Lexa wants her to be, and she did not expect to have any say in the destination. 

Lexa exhales slowly. “I still sleep in my mother’s house too,” she offers, “in the winter, and when I’m not needed elsewhere.”

 

Clarke stares at the careful inches between them on the bed. Lexa is not asking this with her lips pressed to Clarke’s neck, she is not asking this with her fingers buried in Clarke’s cunt. She is trying to give Clarke the space to say “no”. 

 

Absurdly, Clarke’s eyes well up with tears. Lexa’s mouth sags, when the first one drips down Clarke’s cheek, hot and wet. 

 

“You don’t have to!” Lexa is on her knees now, as if she would burst out her own bed and run into the freezing night barefoot and in nothing but her sleepshirt, should she learn that Clarke wants her gone. “You can go anywhere you like, Clarke. I’m not trying to force you to stay with me.”

Clarke sniffles and wipes at her nose. She’s realized that Lexa would never coerce Clarke into her bed, but Clarke still doesn’t feel like she has a true choice. 

She likes Lexa, she does, very much, but Lexa’s bed is also the best place for Clarke if she’s going to have any chance of advancing the Hundred’s interests in the inevitable conflicts that will arise in the future. The fact that Lexa is so lovely, that Clarke would probably choose to be with her anyway if the circumstances were different, somehow makes this deliberate calculation more painful, not less. 

 

Clarke clears her throat before she speaks, but her voice is still snotty and gross. “I want to go where you go, Lexa. Your mother’s house, the seashore, the moon-- anywhere, as long as I’m by your side.”

Lexa’s brown wrinkles in confusion. “I can take you to my mother’s house and to the seashore, Clarke, but I don’t understand how we’d get to the moon.”

Clarke laughs, wetly, and Lexa seems to realize the ridiculousness of her over-literal interpretation, because she grins back at Clarke for just a moment. 

“And I don’t go into battle very often, but I’m not taking you to a true war-camp, ever.” The grin turns to an almost accusing glare. “I don’t care if you don’t like being protected, Clarke. I’m not going to risk losing you.”

Clarke reaches out far enough to take Lexa’s hand, squeezes it firmly. “I promise you won’t lose me, Lexa. I’m yours now. Forever.” 

 

The joy that blossoms on Lexa’s face at that statement makes the ache in Clarke’s chest start up all over again. To suppress the feeling, she clambers to her own knees, and surges forward to kiss Lexa, pushing her down into the bed. 

When Clarke finally pulls back a few minutes later, Lexa reaches up to wipe away the strand of hair that has immediately attached itself to Clarke’s wet, swollen mouth. Her hand stays lifted, once the hair is freed, gently stroking along Clarke’s jawbone. Clarke closes her eyes and leans into the touch. 

 

This, here. Her and Lexa. Clarke is going to put away her planning and her calculating, at least for a moment. This is a _good thing_ , a _lucky_ thing, that she has managed to find. This is joy and love and someone who cares for her, someone who she is finding that, every day, she cares for more and more in return. 

When Lexa moves a few moments later, shifts them so that Clarke is now the one looking up, Clarke smiles with delight and does not feel like crying at all. 

The Hundred made it to the ground. The air was safe to breathe. There were strangers in the woods, but those strangers have taken them in and will teach them how to survive. It’s not quite the future Clarke would have chosen if she had every option in the world, but it’s much, much better than she could have ever expected.

 

And after all the fear and grief and miscommunication, Clarke has a _partner_. She has a partner who is the leader of those strangers, a partner who always puts the good of her people first and is now preparing to consider Clarke’s people as her own. 

This doesn’t mean there won’t be battles ahead. Clarke is already preparing herself to fight them with careful words and deliberate silences, with not-quite concealed disapproval and the hint that further disappointment will lead to the withdrawal of her affection. Maybe one day she’ll dare to tell Lexa “no” to her face, but there’s still a long road to walk before they get there. 

 

But even if things aren’t ideal. They are still _ok_. She’s not afraid of Lexa anymore, not truly, can’t imagine ever being _truly_ afraid of her again. 

And Lexa’s hands have shifted, are pushing Clarke’s sleepshirt up, baring her breasts. Lexa’s dark eyes are wicked when she bends her head to bite and lick, and one of her other hands is already drifting down between Clarke’s legs. 

Clarke throws her head back and moans. She digs her fingers into the firm muscles of Lexa’s back. 

She will go to Lexa’s village and meet her mother, if that is what Lexa wants her to do. She will learn whatever the Trikru believe is essential knowledge for the omega partner of their _Heda_ to know, and she will try to spread her own skills with healing, and anything else that might be useful, when she travels with Lexa through the lands of her -- _their_ \-- people. 

 

Maybe one day she and Lexa will have a baby. Maybe they’ll have five, or ten, and she already hopes that she can do a better job of keeping her children alive than Lexa’s mother did. Maybe one day the Ark will come down from the sky, as a flaming hunk of metal or as a ship full of still living people.

 

She can’t plan for everything, and in this moment, she’s going to stop trying. She is warm, and safe, and well fed, and she has a girl who truly seems to love her. It has to be enough.


	12. Chapter 12

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The epilogue.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ok there is a wee bit of angst amidst the old-marrieds fluff. Specifically, warning for description of miscarriage. Section starts and ends with "***" if you want to skip it.

In the end, they never do get a house of their own. 

Clarke never learns to weave, either. And everytime she tries her hand at clothes washing, the garments come out still dirty, or mangled beyond repair. Sometimes both. Lexa eventually begs Clarke to stop, after Clarke destroys Lexa’s favorite shirt. 

Clarke hoes and picks and pulls weeds in the gardens if she has a spare moment, but she never learns the science-- the craft-- of thinning and pruning, the magic of what to plant where, and when. Each year as the days shorten and the fields turn bowed-headed and golden, she joins the work-crews of the nearest village-- but _everyone_ pitches in at harvest-time. Even the smallest children, even Lexa, Heda herself. 

All other, inessential work ceases until the acres surrounding the villages are nothing but grey, barren stubble, until the storehouses are full. Reaping, threshing, winnowing--these tasks are repetitive enough that eventually Clarke gets very good at them, masters the precise pulls and twists and arches required. Economy of movement means she's only bone tired when the light fades and they retire from the fields, not too exhausted to move. 

 

Lexa's mothers laugh when Lexa suggests that Clarke should, at a full-grown eighteen, try to cram an entire Trikru childhood’s worth of domestic arts into her brain over the course of a single winter.

“Your omega has her own talents, little one,” Lexa's milk mother says, once she's caught her breath.

Clarke blushes at that because she is fairly sure that she and Lexa had failed at being quiet, the previous night. Excepting the loading bearing walls, every partition in the interior of the house is just a frame of rough boards filled in with mud-plastered wicker mats-- sounds carry. It's almost too mortfiftying to bear, the realization that Lexa’s parents, who Clarke likes for their own sakes, seem to think the only thing she can offer their daughter is sex. 

Lexa's birth mother elbows her partner in the ribs at the sight of Clarke's red face, and chucks Clarke under the chin. “I've heard you're an excellent healer, sweetling, that's what we meant. And you will travel with our little one and keep her counsel; you will be waited on by servants for your every need for the rest of your lives, outside of this house. Just because other omegas know these things doesn’t mean you must.”

 

Clarke does learn to spin. 

Eventually she gets good enough at it that she can spin while they travel, and Lexa grumbles over the bundled fibres-- cotton or wool, depending on which villages they visited most recently-- that Clarke constantly struggles to keep balanced and attached to her saddle. Clarke grumbles in return, when Lexa leads the riders into a gallop and dust rises up high enough to dirty her thread. 

They both smile proudly, though, when the village women Clarke gifts with her output exclaim over it's fine, even strength. Many omegas don't even know how to ride, and so they consider her ability to spin from horseback remarkable.

Every time they stop, Lexa is inevitably required to sit for hours in judgement on some dispute, or listen to reports, or exchange long and ritual pleasantries with that village’s leaders. Clarke unspools her thread and plies it into yarn, then, and twists that into tidy skeins or firm, squishy balls. She looks up and smiles occasionally, and whomever is speaking always addresses her respectfully. When she and Lexa are alone together, later, they talk over everything that Clarke has observed, the difference between what was said and left unsaid. 

 

Lexa is constantly besieged with queries, with news and reports. When Clarke feels her heat coming on, in the summer of her twentieth year of life, the fact that the Trikru are extremely loathe to disturb a heat-locked coupling marks some portion of her growing anticipation. 

They have been interrupted in _every_ stage of intimacy. And Lexa -- if Lexa doesn’t need to actually leave to deal with the newest problem, can simply listen and give orders from the comfort of their bed-- Lexa sits half-way up and keeps Clarke close. She trains her serious gaze on the interlopers, gestures with one hand, but under the covers her other hand moves.

The first time it was just little finger circles on Clarke’s kneecap, but the next time that glancing touch moved to the inside of Clarke’s thighs, and soon Lexa grew bolder still. 

Things have escalated to the point that Clarke was completely oblivious to an entire half-hour report on three flooded villages, last spring. It had taken her entire concentration to keep her face still and her breathing even, as Lexa’s clever fingers kneaded and tugged at her breasts and then slid down to the slickness between her legs. 

 

Clarke has devised her own retaliation for Lexa’s near-exhibitionism. 

The state of the Trikru’s technology and transit means that, when Clarke is summoned for her healing skills, to set a broken bone or stitch a wound or help a laboring women, the crisis is rarely so urgent that she must drop everything instantly. In situations where time is of immediate essence, the patient generally predeceases her arrival. 

So when the polite cough at the front of the tent is for Clarke, she asks for details and directions. She explains that she will dress, gather her supplies and be there soon. Then, before departure, she pins Lexa back down, teases and strokes Lexa to the very edge -- and slips away right before Lexa achieves relief, leaving her gasping like a landed fish and cursing Clarke’s name.

The nicest thing is that Lexa always has her revenge upon Clarke’s return. After a bath and a meal, usually, a nap even, depending on the length and horror of the emergency she’d been faced with -- Lexa lays Clarke out and works her over so slowly and thoroughly that Clarke is begging, sweat-soaked, worn out from writhing and completely wrecked before Lexa declares them done.

 

Lexa always orders enough food for two portions when they finally emerge from Clarke’s heat, but she never comments when Clarke refrains from partaking. 

This time, when Clarke leans in to snatch the choicest chunk of slow-roasted pork, the one that Lexa had been reaching for, Lexa goes still. 

She stares at Clarke, jaw hanging open and eyes filled with light. When Clarke shrugs, nods sheepishly, Lexa flings herself forward. She kisses Clarke’s mouth, her cheeks, her eyelashes and the tip of her nose. She is mouthing her way down Clarke’s neck, hand stretched to ruck up Clarke’s crisp clean shirt, when Clarke’s stomach grumbles. 

They both laugh then, eager and excited, and Clarke lays her head in Lexa’s lap and lets Lexa hand feed her every bite, teeth snapping playfully at Lexa's fingertips.

***

The world is dying into fall when Clarke miscarries.

Someone must have summoned Lexa from her inspection of the construction on the nearby mill, because she's there, kneeling at Clarke's bedside.

Clarke has already given up on the hope of another cup of black haw and partridgeberry tea. She is locked into her body, the cramping and the shivery-shakes, and the guttural, groaning grief. Lexa smoothes hair away from Clarke’s brow, whispers that she loves her, loves her so, as Clarke finally expels the bloody mess.

 

Lexa rides out three days later to attend to the increase in raiding on their southern borders.

She still refuses to let Clarke within a mile of true combat but Clarke has accompanied her on other such journeys, staying well-guarded in camp some distance from the fray. 

This time, Clarke remains behind in Lexa’s mothers’ house.

 

Lexa’s mothers are very kind, but also baffled, ever so slightly, as the weeks pass and Clarke does not emerge from deepest mourning. 

Clarke knows that among the Trikru, babies are treated as potential, not certain realities, until they’ve survived at least the first few months of life. Clarke is realizing, now, that this particular hardening of the heart is not one of the lessons she’d managed to learn in her time on earth. Lexa only ever smiled when Clarke said it, never responded, but if the child had been a boy-- she was already planning to name him “Wells.”

***

The Hundred have struggled and so-far failed to reinvent paper. It does not seem to be within reach of the available technology, pulping wood that fine on any significant scale. There’s a second attempt with smashed down cloth fibres, which produces something paper-like, but too lumpy and absorbent to be of practical use.

The Trikru’s most precious maps are drawn on well-tanned hides, less important ones go on the inner layers of birch bark. They scratch quick diagrams into the dirt at their feet. Eventually the Hundred give up and settle for birchbark paper for their letters, too.

There’s no consistent delivery system: letters get passed from hand to hand by traders and warriors until they arrive at their destination, and sometimes they never arrive, get lost instead. Many times, Lexa hears oral reports of events days or even weeks before Clarke receives a written account.

 

In Lexa’s mothers’ house, unread rolls of paper pile up on the little table next to Clarke's bed. 

Lexa comes back from the southern border, victorious and with plans to meet in the spring to discuss a new trade agreement. She makes Clarke take long walks with her in the woods, and points out all of the animal signs that Clarke misses. In the evening, she spreads the missives from Clarke’s friends flat on the bed, lights another oil-lamp and urges her to read them aloud. 

Clarke has tried, repeatedly, to teach Lexa literacy. Lexa will humor the effort for brief periods, but she never stays focused on the letters for long. Her duties demand her attention, or she places a hand over Clarke’s, stilling the ink-dipped brush or twig scratching in the dirt, and leans in for an initiating kiss. 

“Don’t you want to be able to understand what this says for yourself?” Clarke demands now, waving Bellamy and Raven's joint note at Lexa. The familiar frustration at Lexa’s obstinate ignorance is the first feeling that's penetrated her weeks of fog.

“Why? You read them to me, if I ask. You read them to me if I don’t ask too, half the time, and sometime you even continue after I ask you to stop.”

Clarke rolls her eyes, and resumes the recitation.

Sometimes, even two years later, Clarke is still stunned by the differences between life in space and on the ground. On the Ark, illiteracy transgressed the bounds of acceptability. For the Trikru's Heda, spending hours upon hours memorizing a system of abstract symbols represents an almost criminal waste of time. 

 

Jakab, sixth-born, eternal youngest as they have agreed that this many children is enough, and their fourth surviving child (the unnamed baby boy that was twin to their eldest, Lark, died a few weeks after birth; little Abi, next-eldest to Jakab, had just started walking without support when she caught winter-fever) is the only one of Clarke’s children who progresses past what the Ark would have called a second-unit reading level. 

Lark, the very definition of a little-alpha-girl, never learned much more than how to write her own name. She always wanted to be out of the house, playing and fighting and play-fighting, bringing down squirrells with her sling and waving her wooden sword at cobwebs. 

Costus, their second, trundles determinedly in Lark’s footsteps and seems to worship the ground she walks on. It surprises no-one when he presents as a beta. “They’re going to take a single omega together, one of these days, mark my words,” Lexa’s twin sisters say, whenever Clarke and Lexa and the children are staying with them in the village. Behind the twins’ backs, Lexa rolls her eyes, and Clarke suppresses a giggle.

The twins and their shared alpha partner, and their many children, have had keeping of the house Lexa grew up in ever since Lexa’s birth mother passed away four years ago. Lexa’s sire had preceded her by two seasons, but Lexa’s milk mother is still around, hobbled with age, sitting in the warmth near the fire, rocking the babies and telling stories. 

 

When Welha, their only omega daughter, shows more interest in metal-working than the domestic arts, Lexa arranges for her to be apprenticed to the greatest smith the Trikru have, a smith who lives in one of the villages near the eastern seashore. 

Clarke is very glad that Octavia and Lincoln settled in that village, too, when they retired from scout-work. While Welha occasionally scrawls her love to her parents in large, ungainly letters at the bottom of the page, Octavia passes on regular written reports that detail Clarke’s daughter’s progress and general wellbeing. 

 

Jakab practiced his reading with Clarke’s healing notes: everything she has compiled from her memory of lessons on the Ark and the traditions and techniques she’s observed during their time on the ground. 

Clarke’s other children all squirmed away from accompanying her on healing calls as soon as they were too large to carry in the sling on her back, but Jakab continues to toddle after her determinedly. Soon, he hands her the implements she needs, the cloth or knife or herb, before she’s even reaching for them. 

Lexa had been so good about Welha’s un-omega path in life that Clarke does not anticipate Jakab’s interest in healing posing any problem.

“Healing is woman’s magic,” Lexa pleads, when Clarke nuzzles close in bed and demands that she _explain herself_ , after the massive fight that broke out when Jakab declined Anya’s offer to be his First. “He’s an alpha boy, he’s Heda’s alpha son. He will make me proud by becoming a strong warrior, a true man of the Trikru.”

The Trikru are allies and trade partners, now, with seven of the eleven other clans. With fewer enemies to defend against, more and more of the children are choosing lives as craftsworkers, animal-keepers, farmers and artisans, rather than the way of the warrior. Anya’s eldest-and-alpha son, Kodiya, turned down a position as Heda’s own Second in favor of learning a trader’s ways from his mother’s Unkaba, and at the time Lexa had just shrugged. But _Lexa’s son_ , her _only alpha son_ , apparently must obey the strictest, most hide-bound social-sex-roles. 

 

Clarke sleeps alone for the entire three months that Jakab is away under Anya’s tutelage. 

After Clarke’s second solo heat, another series of four deliciously agonizing days spent rebuffing Lexa’s attentions, Lexa rides off with only two guards and without leaving a single word as to her destination. 

She comes back ten days later, a delighted Jakab riding pillion. 

“Anya said he was not happy with her, even though he was learning well and she was of course a very good teacher,” Lexa tells Clarke that night. “How can I let Heda’s own son sulk over his sword-work? It sets a bad example.”

Clarke purses her lips and doesn’t answer. She smoothes balm into Jakab’s scrapes and bruises, and clucks over the neatly-mended rips in his clothing. 

 

Jakab is excited to show off the new muscle definition in his arms, but prouder still to share the tale of a night spent helping Koen, Anya’s beta partner, deliver the cow’s newest calf. At the end of the saga it’s revealed that the birth was breech, but they had still managed to save the lives of both mother and offspring. 

Clarke praises Jakab profusely and then goes through a brief run-down of the techniques she uses herself when presented with a posterior presentation, depending on if it’s a first twin, second twin, or single birth. 

Clarke does not mention the caesarean sections her mother would have performed in similar circumstances on the Ark. Even with her best efforts, Clarke has seen too many mothers and babies die. Some technologies are so far out of reach they might as well be lost forever, and she does not want Jakab to also spend his life cursing the lack of resources he will never have hope of accessing. 

Lexa sprawls in her chair across the table from them, chin in her hands as she listens and smiles at their eager talk. 

 

That night, Clarke struggles to stay awake until she hears Lexa tiptoe into the sleeping area and slide underneath the heaped-high furs. Clarke slithers out of her own hard, chilly bedroll, and clambers up to lie next to her partner. 

With the curtain closed, there’s too little light to see when Lexa sits up to look at Clarke, but Clarke can hear and feel the movement of Lexa’s body, detect the humid warmth of Lexa’s breath on her face. 

“Do you forgive me?” it’s a fervent whisper. 

Clarke gropes for Lexa in the dark and presses her fingertips to Lexa’s lips and doesn’t respond. 

It’s too complicated a question to answer. 

But she doesn’t leave Lexa’s bed. She pulls away just enough to roll over until they are in their usual position, Clarke’s back pressed to Lexa’s front. When Lexa tentatively drapes her arm over Clarke’s waist, Clarke reaches down to lace their fingers together. 

That night, she sleeps deeply and comfortably, and she doesn’t dream.


End file.
